


Peredhil

by Maggiemaye



Series: Under the Mountain [13]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Animal Abuse, Arranged Marriage, Drama, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mild Language, Rating May Change, Romance, obscure Tolkien dwarves, post-moria
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggiemaye/pseuds/Maggiemaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle has ended, Erebor has prospered, and Kili and Tauriel have grown a family of their own beneath the mountain. But for their four children--the first known beings of their kind--the journey is only just beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome! Thank you so much for clicking, and I hope you enjoy this venture. If you're familiar with my other stories, you know that I've gotten very attached to Kili and Tauriel's family. I love to call their children my "dwelf kiddos," but with this story you'll find that they aren't so little anymore. Comments are always greatly appreciated! A few things before we get started:
> 
> First of all, the title of this story is the Sindarin term for "half-elven." Second of all, this story goes hand-in-hand with my Under the Mountain series, so I would strongly advise taking a look at those stories before getting into this one. A lot of questions might be answered that way :) Also, this is very much an AU story. So if you're very attached to Tolkien's timeline of events, you might be a little frustrated here. I'm no Tolkien expert: I just love the movies and was inspired by them. 
> 
> I'm also newly on Tumblr if anyone is into that! I go by magnoliamagic there, and I post a lot of story inspiration and Kiliel things. Come say hi if you want!
> 
> And lastly, huge thanks to Book of Kells for providing the final line of this chapter. If you're reading her story The Land of Might Have Been (which if you aren't, you should, it's absolutely KILLER), you might recognize it :)

Tauriel has nothing against ceremony. Even dwarvish rituals have their charms, as she’s come to find after living so long under the mountain. But she could absolutely do without the intricacies of ceremonial braiding. There is a different style for every type of public appearance, and it has been a trial to learn them all.

Once, she had worked a room full of dwarrow into a near fever-pitch for arriving at a meeting with her hair completely unbound. The incident had been relatively early on in her marriage to Kili, while she’d still been learning the many subtleties of royal life, but Tauriel still maintains that it had been a ridiculous thing to get so upset about. She’d had a babe at the breast and a young son to chase around at the time, and that day she had simply decided that she couldn’t be bothered to braid her hair. But amongst dwarves, dressing one’s hair is as essential as dressing one’s body; to appear with it unbraided had been shockingly indecent. Guests had been scandalized, and the royal family deeply embarrassed, all over a simple matter of hair. Balin’s ensuing lecture had left her properly chagrined, although the look on Dis’ face had been a treasure that Tauriel had taken care to remember exactly.

She is currently putting the finishing touches on one of the more infuriating dwarvish styles; the one that she must wear for formal guard duties. The annual induction ceremony for new guardsmen is to take place later that afternoon; as members of the royal family as well as the guard, she and Kili both take prominent roles in it. She has wound her hair around her head in many coils, but there is one last stubborn piece that will not lie in its proper place.

When she’d made her home in Erebor with Kili, so many years ago, Tauriel had not realized that so many of her responsibilities as a royal consort would involve her hair. If she had, she thinks, she might have reconsidered the whole thing.

“This is impossible,” she huffs, contorting her arms behind her back in order to secure the final pin. She cranes to see the back of her head as she sits before the mirror, but to no avail. After a moment or two of watching her struggle, Kili takes pity on her, crossing their bedchamber to fix it for her.

“And yet you always manage it with absolute perfection,” he says, lowering her arms out of the way so that he can lend his deft hands to the cause. She simply raises an eyebrow into the mirror, letting her reflection speak for her.

“Well, perhaps not perfection,” he admits, tucking the errant lock of red back into its place. “But you are stunning, _amralime,_ always.”

He slides a slow finger down the back of her now-exposed neck, the calloused tip of it catching deliciously on her skin and leaving a tingling trail behind. She arches like a cat into the touch, sighing her approval. The things this _Naugrim_ prince can do to her. It still catches Tauriel by surprise sometimes, the way he makes her feel.

She turns to look at him, and as the light from their small window catches his face, she can see traces of the young dwarf who had gazed up at her through prison bars so long ago. His beard is fuller now, his skin paler from less time spent in the sun. But the expression there is blessedly the same—still full of hope and wonder at the sight of her. Tauriel hopes that, in the privacy of their bedchamber, her own expression reflects his. It is difficult for her, at times, to be so free with her emotions as her husband is. But Kili has known her long enough; he sees her love for him even when others may not.

“We could always stay here,” he suggests in a roguish whisper, leaning close. With her seated before him, they are nearly of equal height. “It wouldn’t take us long to make a fine mess of those braids.”

“Our son, Kili,” she points out. “You would joke about missing our son’s induction ceremony.”

He winks at her, and Tauriel bites the inside of her lip to keep from smiling.

“Just wanted to see that look on your face. You know I love it when you get stern.” He grins and goes to place his silver crown atop his head. Already dressed in royal finery, Kili looks every inch a prince. Nethelion, their eldest son, is his spitting image, if more than a head taller. Today they will see this son officially sworn into the guard, his long years of training finally come to fruition. The thought gives Tauriel’s heart a sharp squeeze; judging by Kili’s suddenly faraway eyes, his thoughts are similar.

“I can’t quite believe it’s possible,” he says quietly.

“That we have a grown son?”

“That we’re going to put a blade in his hand and let him fight Orcs.”

“He would have it no other way,” she says, picturing Nethelion in her mind’s eye. He charges headlong through his life, eager to prove himself at every turn. In this, she sees herself in him. “And are you not always saying that we cannot keep them sheltered in the mountain forever?”

“No one likes hearing their own advice, my love.” He kisses her swiftly, and she cannot resist tugging at the front of his tunic to draw him flush against her. They part slowly, resting their foreheads lightly together. Tauriel closes her eyes and marvels at the sweetness of it. They have known each other less than a single century, and already Kili is an inseparable part of herself.

She takes his hand and presses the knuckles to her lips, savoring the silent moment before they must join the noise and activity of Erebor. 

* * *

 

The steamy summer heat sticks Eronel’s hair to the back of his neck, and he regrets leaving the mountain without pulling it back. By the time he reaches his younger siblings at their usual place, he is regretting leaving at all, but they have not given him much of a choice. Someone has to keep track of mundane things like schedules and time; among his siblings, he seems to be the only one capable of it. He reaches down to shift the straps that hold his wooden leg in place before walking the last few feet, wincing as he does so. The contraption allows him to walk independently, but by no means is it comfortable.

Rhuna and Therin are seated across from one another, shaded by a tall boulder at the base of the mountain. Eronel picks his way across the rocky ground toward them, unsurprised to see the little red fox snuffling and pawing at the patchy grass between them. The creature is Therin’s baby; he’d found it weak and ill, huddled in the rocks, and immediately felt responsible for its fate. Far from being distrustful, the fox had latched onto Therin immediately, allowing him to nurse it back to a semblance of health. Eronel had always heard that foxes were supposed to be mean, but Therin has charmed it completely. Perhaps this shouldn’t be surprising; Therin possesses a gentleness of spirit beyond that of anyone Eronel has ever known—elf, man, or dwarf.

The clap of his wooden leg and cane on the rocks makes it impossible for him to sneak up on the pair. Rhuna looks up and waves when she hears him coming, calling out a greeting, but Therin remains fully attentive to his little charge.

“She has a tick,” Therin informs Eronel as he approaches. The fox licks his hand as he inspects its fur.

“It’s a she? You checked?”

“She just seems like a she.” Therin shrugs. “Here, Rhuna, you do it. Your fingers aren’t so big.”

Rhuna obliges, parting the creature’s fur to grasp the tick between her nails. Eronel squints as the sun glints off her long blonde braid, as well as Therin’s vibrant red hair that rivals that of his fox. Eronel himself has inherited the more unassuming black hair of his fathers, but the smooth texture is distinctly elven. It is fully plastered to his forehead and neck now, thanks to the exertion of such a long walk, and he wishes again that he had remembered to tie it back.

“Have you named her yet?” Rhuna asks as she cleaves the insect in two, tossing it to the ground and crushing it with a rock for good measure.

“Yes.”

This, evidently, is all the answer Therin is inclined to give. Eronel and Rhuna shrug at each other.

“I came out because the ceremony is starting soon and no one has seen you.”

Rhuna’s head snaps up at this, her eyes round and wide.

“Therin! I told you we’d stay too long!” She leaps to her feet, brushing leaves and debris from the back of her dress. Therin clambers up more sedately, petting his fox goodbye and whispering promises to return soon.

“We won’t miss it,” Eronel says. “We’ll just sneak in the back.”

“Well, now we know it isn’t just Nethelion who makes us late for everything,” Rhuna says with a toothy smile. She is trying her best not to seem impatient with the slow pace that he sets, but Eronel can see it in her posture clear as day. Quietly groaning, he tries to quicken his step as the three of them make their way back to the mountain. “We’re all hopeless.”

 _“I’m_ not hopeless,” Eronel protests. “At least I wouldn’t be if not for this gimp.”

“Well then, you get to be hopeless like the rest of us,” she jokes as they find the stone door, and he yanks her braid in response. The mountain is blessedly cool after the humid outdoors, and Eronel breathes a sigh of relief as they navigate the wide corridors.

By the time they finally reach the Hall, the ceremony is well underway and Master Dwalin has already begun calling names. Their mother and father stand to his left, to present the blades and beads. They stare pointedly ahead, as is tradition, but Eronel think he sees their father’s mouth twitch upward as they walk in. Next to them is their uncle Fili, King Under the Mountain, waiting to officially swear the new soldiers in. The inductees stand in three lines before the gathering; as each name is called, they move individually to receive their dagger and bead. Nethelion, obviously, is the first to draw the eye; his comrades-in-arms barely come up to his elbows. It is comical to watch, though Eronel would never dream of teasing Nethelion about it.

The siblings slip in to sit next to their uncle Thorin at the back of the hall, whispering apologies when they jostle a few dwarves as they pass. It is bad enough that they already stand out terribly in a gathering of dwarrow, but they have to draw more attention to themselves by being late. Eronel hears some shuffling behind them when they are seated, as the dwarrow crane their necks to see around him and Rhuna. Therin causes no disturbance; alone among the four of them, he is short enough to pass for a full-blooded dwarf. The ‘dams might smile at him as he gets older, Eronel thinks with only a touch of bitterness. Only his beardless face and large pointed ears give Therin’s heritage away. By contrast, he and Nethelion are much too elven-looking to catch any dwarrowdam’s eye.

The mood in the hall is more somber than is typical for a swearing-in ceremony. This year is different, however, for the shadow of those absent hangs heavily about the place. Balin, the king’s chief advisor. Oin, who had saved Eronel’s life after the accident that had taken his leg. Ori, who had been their teacher. All are dead after a disastrous campaign a few months before. Eronel had listened to the talk at meals in the months before they’d marched. Their uncle Fili had done his best to hold Balin off for as long as he could, but the old dwarf would not be persuaded, and Fili had refused to command the one who had advised him for so long. Balin had been determined to take Khazad-Dum, the dwarven kingdom of old, just as Erebor had been reclaimed all those years ago. And he had given his life for that vision, along with every dwarf who had lent their blades to his cause. Black banners still hang about the hall in remembrance for those lost.

They have all heard the whispers of deepening shadows across Arda. Eronel looks to their brother as his name is called and he steps forward to receive his bead and blade. He does not smile; none of them do. Eronel can practically feel the question in the air: _How much longer can peace last?_

“Nethelion, son of Kili.” Their uncle’s voice rings out, touched with just a hint of familial warmth. “Swear fealty to your kingdom.”

Nethelion places his right fist over his heart. Next to him, Eronel feels Therin’s body stiffen suddenly as their brother’s deep voice echoes through the hall.

“My life for Erebor, for my king.”


	2. Kili/Therin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul translation: "Azbad"=lady
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The royal family of Erebor makes it a point to share a meal together in the king’s dining hall one night every week; just Fili and Kili with their families, as well as Thorin and Dis. Here they can shed the titles of King, Queen, Prince, Princess, and whatever else. They can simply enjoy each other, be a family, and speak freely without fear of political repercussions. It is difficult to call a gathering of dwarves calm or sedate, but Durin’s line does tend to run that way compared to most others. Perhaps it is the weight of royalty upon them, or perhaps it is simply the way that Mahal chose to forge them. Either way, these meals tend to be generally quiet, without the chaos and roughhousing that is typical of their race.

Kili likes to consider this his time to shine.

Contrary to popular belief, he is a very mature and sophisticated dwarf. He just happens to have a more childlike sense of humor than most of his relatives (and yes, there is a difference between childlike and childish). Fortunately, this is a trait that Rhuna, his most willing partner in mischief, shares with him. Tonight they have devised a game of great skill and precision: he tosses the remains of his meal across the table for her to catch in her empty soup bowl, which is balanced atop her head. Kili experiments with his aim and Rhuna cheats every time, gripping her bowl so that it does not crash to the floor. Each round ends with delighted snickering from the pair and eye rolls from almost everyone else at the table.

He has just tossed a piece of chicken directly at his daughter’s nose when a comment from Thorin reaches him.

“I never thought I’d live to see a day when we would receive Ironfists in Erebor,” their uncle grumbles at Fili, who just sighs into his ale. The exchange piques Kili’s interest. In the time that Thorin has been back under the mountain, he has scarcely said a single word about anything concerning the running of Erebor. _Leave that to the King,_ he always says. _I am here as your uncle only, not an advisor._ But it seems that even Thorin cannot keep silent about the imminent arrival of Ironfists, a clan from the far-eastern Red Mountains.

Kili keeps an ear on the conversation as he keeps throwing food to Rhuna, motioning for her to keep their game quieter. He sees his younger sons, on either side of him, paying closer attention as well. Nethelion is absent tonight, taking his first perimeter watch, but Kili is certain that Eronel will take it upon himself to inform his brother of every word that is spoken.

“Have you even met any Ironfists before, Uncle?” Fili asks, knowing the answer.

“No,” Thorin grumbles. “But it’s the principle! You know the tales.”

“Not tales,” Dis puts in. “History. There are reasons that Durin’s Folk do not mix with Ironfists.”

Fili sighs. “Yes, I’m well aware. But they have reached out to us. And besides, the grudge between our clans is older than any dwarf in this room. Perhaps it can be put to bed, in light of recent events.”

Kili doubts that their elders will share Fili’s optimism. Personally, he isn’t quite sure what to think or say. The situation does give him pause; the Red Mountains are uncharted territory, and the Ironfist clan a great unknown. Every dwarf with a bit of education knows that Durin’s Folk have not interacted with Ironfists in at least an age. Historically, there is quite a lot of bad blood between them, going back to a distant time when both Khazad-Dum and Gundabad had been ruled by dwarves, not Orcs. But it goes without saying that Kili will stand by any decision his brother sees fit to make. And perhaps Fili is right, that the ill will is nothing more than a line in their history books by now.

“It cannot hurt to hear them out,” he offers. “We don’t have to commit ourselves to anything by receiving them in the mountain.”

“Tell us again what their lord said in his message,” Tauriel says, businesslike as ever when it comes to matters of politics.

“He said that he wished to discuss building an alliance with Erebor. He believes that we can help each other, and his sons are on their way here to represent him.” Fili dryly recites the words from the missive he had received. It had come quite some time ago, but Fili has gone over it so many times that he has practically memorized it. “A good faith gesture, he said.”

Dis shakes her head.

“Most folk only make such gestures at their own personal benefit. Mahal knows Dain has taught us that,” she scoffs. Everyone glances at Corolan, Fili’s wife, who hails from the Iron Hills and knows Dain well. But she simply gives a wry shrug.

“You aren’t wrong,” she says. In her lap, the dwarfling Crown Prince wriggles to get free of his mother’s arms. Corolan puts Vili down, only to be scooped up by Rhuna as he wanders past her chair. As the only dwarfling left in the family, Vili’s feet scarcely touch the ground when they are all together.

“Good faith?” Eronel enquires, taking a sip from his tankard and looking far too grown-up for Kili’s comfort. “It is odd, Uncle. Why show good faith now?”

“I cannot imagine.” Fili is noncommittal, even as Dis nods emphatically to Eronel’s statement. “But if the Ironfists are willing to make the journey all the way here from the Red Mountains, then we know that they will at least have something interesting to say.”

“Just be wary when they come, nephew,” Thorin says ominously. “Make them earn your trust.”

Fili nods but says nothing more. Kili can see that his brother’s patience with this subject has been pressed past its limits.

“Adad,” Therin says, tapping Kili’s arm.

“What is it, son?” he says rather loudly, silently thanking Therin for the timely interruption.

“Lord Dain’s name is Ironfoot, and he lives in the Iron Hills, but he _isn’t_ an Ironfist?” 

“Correct,” Kili says, grinning. The others at the table turn to listen, smiling as well.

“And the Iron Hills dwarrow are Durin’s Folk, but the Red Mountains dwarrow are Ironfists,” Rhuna puts in.

“Correct again.”

“So why don’t the Iron _fists_ just live in the Iron _Hills?”_ Therin asks, with the air of someone who has just solved a complex and irksome puzzle.

“Dwarven logic is beyond understanding, my love,” Tauriel answers, winking at Kili, who mimes lobbing a half-eaten dinner roll at her head. Everyone chuckles at the comment except for Thorin and Dis, who fixes Tauriel with a look of steel. Tauriel just smiles down at her plate, as if she does not notice. Kili isn’t fooled for a moment. Just as he sees his mother’s blatant annoyance, he also sees that Tauriel takes pleasure in picking at her. At one time Kili might have spoken with either or both of them about it, but he has learned that some things will not change no matter what. His mother and his wife tolerate one another, which is the best he can ask of either of them.

A sudden warm splat on his chest interrupts Kili’s thoughts. He snaps his head up to fix Rhuna with an accusatory stare.

“What was that for?”

“It wasn’t me, I swear, Adad!” she says through giggles, pointing at the dwarfling in her lap. Vili just looks at him with an expression that is entirely too innocent, his small hands conspicuously covered in mashed potatoes.

“He’s your nephew, all right,” Fili says with a snort.

“He’s _your_ son,” Kili retorts, scooping a glob of his own potatoes onto his spoon and giving Vili a wicked grin. The dwarfling shrieks and jumps down from Rhuna’s lap, ducking behind her chair. His antics draw laughter from around the table, and the subject of Ironfists is dropped as the conversation turns to lighter things. 

* * *

 

“I wish I could bring you inside the mountain with me,” says Therin softly, scratching the fox at the base of her bushy red tail. “It would be fun. You could sleep in my room. But Adad says that foxes don’t belong in stone.”

It is early enough that Therin had been able to slip away from the mountain without being held up. Dawn has only just broken, and the sun has not yet risen above Erebor’s peak. Therin sits in the vast shadow with his little charge, leaning against his usual boulder and petting her. She is getting a little more meat on her bones now, thanks to his frequent offerings of food in addition to her own hunting. He’d once seen her dig up a mole and eat it right there in front of him; the sight had been reassuring as well as disgusting.

It is nice to be alone. Therin likes having a big family, but there are times when there are too many voices and he just needs some time. That’s how he’d found the fox in the first place; he’d been wandering outside the mountain and stumbled over her, lethargic and sick. He had taken the time to pet her thin fur, and given her some leftover roast from lunch. And from then on she has been there to greet him every time he leaves the mountain, even as she has regained more and more strength. Therin cannot help feeling attached to the little creature; even if his father will not let him bring her inside, he doesn’t see any reason why they can’t be friends.

Her name is Azbad, Therin has decided, and he thinks it suits her well. He rubs under her chin and murmurs to her, so quietly that he can barely hear himself.

“The dreams are getting worse.”

Azbad blinks up at him as he moves to scratch her ears, leans back against the boulder, and closes his eyes. He had only slept in snatches the previous night—and every other night in the two weeks since Nethelion’s induction ceremony. Therin is no stranger to nightmares; he has had them ever since he can remember. As a dwarfling they had been about nonsense things, easily soothed by a cup of water and his mother’s kind hand. Now, however, he fears that the monsters visiting his sleep are beyond such comforts. He wakes several times throughout the night—sometimes screaming, sometimes with tears in his eyes, always sick with dread. And no matter how hard he tries, he cannot remember what he dreams about.

He thinks back to Nethelion’s ceremony, with a pang like an arrow through the heart. Therin cannot explain what had come over him that day. All he knows is the moment Nethelion had opened his mouth to take the oath, a terrible feeling had crashed over him. All of a sudden he’d wanted to run up to his brother and push him back, to stop him from saying the words. But the guard is Nethelion’s one passion, his one dream. So Therin had stayed silent even though the shadowy bad feeling would not leave him alone. And now it is there every time he looks at his oldest brother, squeezing his chest like a fist.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says in a small voice. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Just saying the words aloud seems to loosen the knot in Therin’s stomach just a little, even if he is saying them to a fox. Azbad noses at his shirt pockets, searching for crumbs. She cannot give him advice or opinions, which makes her presence all the more soothing. Therin has told no one of his newly troubled sleep for this very reason. He cannot imagine what his family might say or do that would be helpful. They might not even believe him; after all, they are used to hearing nightmare stories from him. Why should they believe that it is different now, frightening in a way that feels all too real? Better not to bother them, he thinks.

This morning he thinks he might remember seeing a tall lady in his dream, dressed in a white hooded cloak. She had lifted her hands to the hood, turning her head just slightly toward him, when he’d woken. She’d had a comforting air about her, Therin thinks, but the memory is so hazy that it’s difficult to be sure.

He stays outside with Azbad until the sun begins to peer over the top of the mountain. He needs to be back in his family’s quarters and in bed soon, so that he can pretend he is just waking up when his parents call him for breakfast. After that will come another day of struggling to keep his eyes open, of pretending that everything is all right. He does not know how much longer he can go on this way. There must be something he can do or someone who can help him, if only Therin just knew where to begin.

Perhaps he will see the lady again tonight.

 


	3. Eronel/Tauriel

Eronel had not meant to become a scribe by trade. Before he’d lost his leg, he had imagined himself training for the guard alongside Nethelion. Archery, in particular, had interested him; growing up watching his parents wield their bows with such ferocity had given Eronel a burning desire to do it himself someday. But dwarfling dreams are not always dependable, he has learned. Some, like Nethelion, have a clear path laid out for them. Meanwhile, Eronel has been forced to improvise. The accident had narrowed his options drastically, and working with words is nearly the only thing that doesn’t require him to be light on his feet.

Because of the sheer volume of languages to translate and texts to study, scribe work requires many more years of tutoring beyond what is already customary. Eronel likes to learn and he doesn’t mind the work, but it does get monotonous at times. Usually there is some sibling or another around to distract him as he studies, but Nethelion is gone all the time now, and Rhuna had been whisked away by their grandmother right after breakfast that morning. Therin is sitting across from him at their family’s dining table; he’d had ideas of doing schoolwork of his own, but he’d slumped forward into his open book nearly two hours ago. So today Eronel has only his little brother’s steady, quiet snores for company as he sifts through the old texts.

He hadn’t been aware of all the different dialects of Khuzdul, the way the runes have evolved over time and vary from clan to clan. It is times like these that he misses Ori the most. Their former teacher had gotten excited about languages in the same way most dwarves were excited about gems or ale. Eronel has tried to like Ori’s replacement, but no one can come close to duplicating Ori. He had been the best teacher they’d ever had, the only one who had actually acknowledged their elven nature instead of pretending it wasn’t there. He had taken the time to give them detailed lessons about the old alliance between elves and dwarves. On days when Eronel couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, it had somehow made him feel better to hear about a time when the two races had been on friendly terms. He sends up a quick mental thanks, hoping that it reaches Ori in Mahal’s forge.

He presses his pen carefully to the blank scroll before him, to translate a section of ancient Stiffbeard text. The smallest variation in stroke can completely change the meaning of the runes, so he must go slowly for now. It is a test of patience and precision—which is really what had appealed to him about archery in the first place. If Eronel has learned anything over his forty years of life, it is that things tend to cycle around in ways one might not expect.

The front door opens after a while to admit their parents, windswept from a morning watch outside the mountain. They call greetings, lowering their voices when Eronel gestures to his sleeping brother.

“I see you’ve had an exciting morning,” their father says, chuckling at Therin’s answering snore.

“Riveting,” Eronel says dryly, holding up ink-stained fingers. Their mother smiles as she squeezes his shoulder, then bends to lightly kiss Therin’s hair.

“Are you hungry, my love?” she asks softly, and Eronel nods.

“We’ll make something. Wake your brother soon, or he’ll never sleep tonight.”

They move into the kitchen, his mother gathering sausage, cheese, tomatoes, and a sharp knife. Out of the corner of his eye Eronel sees his father wrap his arms around her waist and press a long, tender kiss to the center of her back. Her hands go still as she tips her head back just slightly, the ends of her fiery sheet of hair pooling on top of his dark head. Eronel knows that they don’t mean for the moment to be private; much to the frequent embarrassment of their children, Kili and Tauriel are never shy about their affection. But the scene feels so deeply personal that he averts his eyes anyway, smiling as he goes back to his work. The translation is painstaking, and he concentrates on keeping his strokes even and controlled.

Without warning, Therin jerks awake with a gasp and shout. The shock makes Eronel’s hand jump, marring his translation with a thick jagged line. Heart pounding, he looks up to see Therin clutching the edge of the table for dear life. His dark eyes are wide and rimmed with red as he glances around the room, clearly frightened and still disoriented. He turns his frantic gaze onto Eronel, who immediately puts his pen down.

The look in Therin’s eyes is desperate, wild. Something about it gives Eronel pause.

“Everything all right?”

Kili pokes his head through the doorway. Therin turns his head just enough that their father can’t see the urgent _keep quiet_ look he gives Eronel.

“Fine,” Eronel says smoothly, putting a mask of false pain on his face. “I just pulled out an old splinter.” He gestures to his wooden leg where it is propped against the table. Kili looks at him for a moment before he nods, apparently satisfied.

“Bofur’s working on a steel one, did I tell you?”

“I don’t think so.” Eronel keeps his tone even, while his mind races. There is no way to know if his lie has been successful. He almost wishes it had been their mother who’d come in; she and Eronel are so similar in temperament that he usually feels confident in reading her. Kili is more difficult. He might act completely silly sometimes, but he always turns out to know more than he lets on.

As soon as their father disappears back into the kitchen, Eronel looks over at Therin. He is pale and his hands still shake, but he seems marginally calmer. He gestures for the pen and scroll; Eronel passes it across the table, and he hurriedly scribbles something down. His face is pleading as he shoves the paper back.

_Please don’t tell._

Eronel looks back in the direction of the kitchen. Their parents could barge in at any second, and Therin won’t be able to hide his distress if they get a good look at him. Eronel inspects his brother’s face, noting the purple tinge beneath his eyes. He is already struggling to keep them open, as if the two-hour nap has only made him more exhausted. A sinking feeling begins to creep over Eronel and he hesitates, torn. All is clearly not well with Therin, and surely this secret—whatever it is—cannot be good for him. But confidence among siblings is sacred, more sacred than anything else as far as Eronel is concerned. Even though his instincts are screaming that something important is happening, he won’t betray his brother.  

He takes the pen.

_Go to your room and I’ll tell them you’re sick. When they’re gone we’ll talk._

He underlines “talk” four times, giving Therin a stern look as he does so. Whatever his little brother has been hiding, he won’t be getting away with it any longer. 

* * *

 

It has been agreed that Tauriel will remain out of sight when the Ironfists arrive, at least at first. Kili will receive them at the gate, and after they have become acquainted, only then will she be permitted to show her face. And under no circumstances is she to reveal her status as part of the royal family; not until later that evening, when they gather in the feasting hall.

Tauriel’s feelings about this arrangement are mixed. On the one hand, it irks her that she is being made to hide inside her own home. And yet, it is always an advantage to observe in secret, without being observed yourself. She holds onto this thought as she takes her position, in a guard post tucked away high among the ornate wall carvings of the entry chamber. The massive carvings appear intricate from a distance, but are deep and wide enough to hide a covert onlooker from sight. Tauriel sweeps her hair back and settles in to watch the proceedings.

The Ironfists have come with guards, of course. Tauriel eyes them, taking note of the blades they carry. Standard dwarvish battle-axes abound, along with broadswords and daggers. There is not a single bow to be found among them. Their faces are blank, though she does catch a few gazing up at the cavernous ceilings and dark opulence of Erebor’s front entrance. Tauriel remembers her first entry into the Lonely Mountain—an overwhelming experience for anyone, even an elf who has seen many centuries pass—and feels a moment of solidarity with the guards. If King Thranduil had ever been inclined to travel, Tauriel is certain that a similar duty would have fallen to her: accompanying him on his journeys to ensure safety along the way, and then idling about in a foreign kingdom for however long his highness wished to stay.

Following the guards come the Ironfists themselves. Tauriel leans forward as they enter, taking note of their every move.

There are four of them, two male and two female, and they walk in pairs. The first pair moves with purpose and intent, nobility apparent in their bearing. It is difficult to ascertain age upon a first glance—especially among dwarves, whose beards tend to cover any facial clues. But Tauriel would venture to guess that these two are of middle years, perhaps a little older than Kili and Fili. The second pair is considerably younger, and as such, they hover some distance behind.  

Upon seeing Kili waiting, the elder dwarf strides forward. His hair and beard are a dusty brown, adorned with beads of red. His sharp, pointed features bear a strong resemblance to the dwarrowdam that follows at his side. Perhaps they are not husband and wife, then, but family somehow.

“Gorsed of Orocarni, at your service.” He bows low in greeting as he identifies himself and the remote, isolated land from which he hails.

“Kili of Erebor, at yours.”

Gorsed grins. If he is at all apprehensive about entering the mountain, he does not show it. In fact, his smile grows ever wider as he takes in the grandeur around him.

“So these are the famed halls of Erebor,” he sighs with appropriate curiosity and awe. “It is surreal to set foot here. As it will be to break bread with Durin’s Folk, I’m sure.”

“Likewise.” Kili’s tone is polite but not necessarily enthusiastic. Playing nice with dignitaries is not among his preferred duties, although he is more skilled at it than many of Fili’s council.

Eventually, Gorsed remembers that he has companions.  

“Gadra, my sister,” he says, gesturing to the vaguely disinterested-looking dwarrowdam at his left, “and her children, Fane and Cana.”

“Welcome. Excuse my asking, but we were told that your lord would send both his sons?”

“He thought better of it,” Gadra replies. Her voice is deep, and her tone decidedly smug.

“Our father is not well,” Gorsed says, by way of explanation. “Our elder brother felt that he should remain behind in the Red Mountains, under the circumstances.”

“Ah. You have my sympathies.”

Gorsed nods. “It is a grave time. But we were unwilling to let this opportunity go. We thank you for receiving us, your highness.”

There is a lull after this, during which Tauriel takes note of the younger pair. They are brother and sister, Gorsed had said, and yet they do not acknowledge one another. The young dwarrowdam, in particular, makes it a point to keep her gaze locked to her right side, physically turning aside from him. Tauriel files it away for later consideration, though perhaps it is nothing noteworthy. She is used to seeing the way her own children interact, so attuned to one another that they are practically extensions of the same being. They anticipate each other’s needs, and know each other’s whereabouts practically at all times. Witnessing such strong bonds on a daily basis would make any lesser relationship pale in comparison.

Still, she files it away.

“But you are exhausted, I’m sure,” Kili says after a few moments, opening his arms. “My brother is ready for your audience, and then you will be shown to your quarters. Tauriel? You would escort us?”

Kili does not have to raise his voice; her hearing is such that she can pick up the signal even from a distance. At his word, she leaps down from her hidden vantage point to land soundlessly at his side. It is a small trick, but impressive given the height of her jump and the sheer shock value of her presence.

“Your highness,” she murmurs, taking care to hide the rush of glee that comes with executing her jump, as well as the humor of addressing her husband in such a distant manner. An elf would have seen through her instantly, of course. But even the most expressive of elves generally appears cold and aloof to a dwarf. It is a misconception that Tauriel has often used to her advantage.

The reaction to her presence is instantaneous and sharp. Gorsed curses at the sight of her and takes a few steps backward, forgetting the cheerful decorum he had shown. Fane, the young dwarrow, is quick to draw his sword and take a defensive stance. His sister, Cana, stiffens and gasps. Only the elder dwarrowdam, Gadra, does not react. She simply takes in Tauriel’s sudden appearance with a steady gaze. Tauriel meets her eyes briefly, surprised and admittedly impressed by her composure.

At the sharp sound of the blade being drawn, Kili’s attention has snapped to Fane.

“Mind your steel, sir. As long as you are within these halls, you will not turn a naked blade upon a soldier of Erebor.”

Fane sheaths his sword in haste, though the set of his jaw is still harsh. Gorsed hastens to speak.

“Forgive my nephew, your highness,” he says, tugging at his beard and looking uncomfortable for the first time since arriving. “In his youth, he acts in haste. And, with your leave, sire, none of us expected to encounter an…elf…under the mountain.”

“You have much to learn about this kingdom, then.” A razor edge has crept into Kili’s voice, setting the agenda hard and fast. “If you’ll follow us. The King Under the Mountain waits.”

The Ironfists glance at each other before falling into step behind them. If they are upset now, Tauriel can only imagine their horror at the feast tonight, when they find out that she is Kili’s wife. With her back to their guests, she can indulge in the wicked, anticipatory smile that comes with the thought. She had almost forgotten how much _fun_ it is to raise the blood pressure of dwarves.


	4. Rhuna/Nethelion

“Oh yes. I knew it would be beautiful on you.”

Rhuna looks into her grandmother’s long mirror with a bit of apprehension, adjusting her new bodice and trying to relax her shoulders. The gown is indeed a treasure, deep purple threaded with gold, and long sleeves weighted down with rubies. It is not what many would consider revealing, but the neckline dips noticeably lower than she is used to. It is the kind of gown that will command attention—so lavish, so striking, that Rhuna thinks the gown might be wearing her instead of the other way around. She has never worn anything quite so extravagant before. When her grandmother had asked what her favorite color was, Rhuna would never have imagined a surprise like this.

It is like looking at a different person in the mirror, one Rhuna is not yet well acquainted with. Giddy excitement swoops through her stomach at the thought.

“Grandmother, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Oh, don’t you dare,” Dis clucks. “This is my joy. Now sit down on the floor, my heart, so I can dress your hair.”

Her grandmother presses down on Rhuna’s shoulders until she sinks to the floor, and begins to work a comb through her long, thick mane of hair. She is the only one who has ever known how to dress it; her father is too hopelessly male, and her mother is at a loss for how to deal with hair that does not slip easily through the fingers. On the rare days when a single long braid will not suffice, Rhuna knows where to turn.

This is one such day. The arrival of the Ironfist delegation is an occasion for courtly affairs and feasting, as protocol dictates. Her parents had complained about it over breakfast that morning—they are never opposed to a party, but they would choose a gathering of friends over a formal affair to impress strangers.

Rhuna strokes at her beard as her grandmother works, making sure that the trim is even across her jaw. At every other feast she’s been to, she has been shoved off to the child’s table, watching from afar the dwarrowdams in their finest. Now, finally, is her chance to be one of them. Her parents might say it is all a big headache, but Rhuna cannot bring herself to agree. Not tonight. She imagines herself walking into the hall attired as she is. Rhuna has only ever worn the simplest of adornments, taking a cue from her mother. Tauriel has no love for gems, and her elven elegance is indeed finer than any decoration she could put on herself. Rhuna, however, has begun to feel increasingly naked without any sort of gems or finery or intricate braids, especially in front of other dwarves.

“Your hair is just like Fili’s,” says Dis fondly, separating a section off to braid.

“Like yours, too.” Rhuna grins up at her, knocking the top of her head against her grandmother’s chin. It is a long-running joke within their family that if Rhuna were not so tall, and her ears not so pointed, folk would mistake her and Dis for mother and daughter. Their resemblance is strong in nearly every feature; wheat-colored hair, dimpled cheeks, thick eyebrows, and wide brown eyes that Kili shares with them as well.

“There now, you’re finished. Except…” Dis trails off, moving across her chamber to dig through the chest of drawers against the far wall. Rhuna inspects her hair as she leaves, admiring the finished product. Some of it is coiled in a braid around her head, with a delicate string of rubies woven in. The rest hangs loose down her back, the golden waves rippling as she moves her head.

“All right, close your eyes,” Dis calls. Rhuna does so, squirming a little in anticipation, and eventually feels something cold clamp around one ear and then the other. She laughs at the strange sensation.

“Grandmother! What—“

“Open up now.” The smile in Dis’s voice is obvious. Rhuna opens her eyes and cannot hold back a gasp at the sight of the stunning golden cuffs her grandmother has placed upon her ears. They are large enough to cover her entire ear down to the lobe, and adorned with long chains of mithril as delicate as thread. Rhuna moves her head from side to side, listening to the thin music of the chains as they swing. Dis beams at her.

“My mother wore these,” she says, her face far away. “If not for Smaug's reign of terror she would have been the proudest Queen Under the Mountain that Erebor had ever seen, I am sure of it. These were her favorites, the only finery she salvaged in our escape.” She blinks the memories away and smiles down at Rhuna. “It gives me joy to see you wear them now, my heart.”

“But Grandmother, I don’t think I should wear them,” Rhuna breathes. Knowing the history of the magnificent cuffs makes her almost afraid to even look at them. “They must be fragile. You know me, I’ll break them!”

But she just laughs. “Rhuna, they are yours. As a princess of Erebor, it is right that you should wear them. But tell me, how is the fit? I had them reshaped for those elven ears of yours.”

“A little tight, maybe. But fine.” Rhuna pulls at them a bit, trying to situate them more comfortably. She imagines that the pinch will indeed become painful in a few hours’ time, but they are too precious to take off. The mithril glints and sparkles in the dim light, as do the rubies that adorn her hair and gown, and Rhuna has never felt more like a princess in her life.

* * *

 

Among dwarves, there is a very simple philosophy on diplomatic relations: Nothing dispels awkwardness faster than generously flowing ale.

The Court Under the Mountain has heartily embraced this philosophy, many of them showing up to the feast already half-drunk. Bofur and Nori are particularly deep in their cups, starting a round of off-key singing before the second course has even been served. It is plain to see that many of the courtiers of Erebor were not born to nobility; as members of the company that had reclaimed Erebor from Smaug, they have earned their status through acts of valor. Upon taking the throne, Fili had chosen to fill his court with these close and trusted friends rather than search the great bloodlines.

Nethelion thinks he would have done the same, if he’d been in his uncle’s position. They might not be the most dignified courtiers, but Nethelion believes that fun is sometimes more important than dignity. He grins down the table at Bofur and lifts his tankard to him.

“Cheers, laddie!” he calls, responding so enthusiastically that he soaks his arm with ale and sends his hat askew.

“At least someone’s relaxed,” Nethelion remarks to Eronel as they laugh at Bofur’s antics.

 _“He_ doesn’t have to play the gracious host,” Eronel replies, glancing down the table at their parents. They are seated across from Gorsed and Gadra (Nethelion mentally checks to make sure he still has their names straight), looking as though they are in the middle of a tiresome council meeting rather than at a feast. Their father, in particular, is so far from his usual mealtime self that Nethelion frowns. The presence of strangers in their hall has put most everyone a bit on edge.

Still, there are few places Nethelion would rather be. Guard duty has been a grueling adjustment, and it is good to be among friends and family. Eronel sits to his left, and Therin, having snuck away from the children’s table across the hall, takes the place at his right.

“Look at Amad,” Eronel murmurs, low enough to be discreet even by elven standards. Nethelion looks and winces at the unhappy look on her face. He turns his focus to their conversation, picking it out like a strand in the chaotic web of activity around them. Within a few moments, it becomes abundantly clear why they are upset.

“How is it possible,” Gorsed slurs, gesturing between his parents with a jerky hand, “that the two of you were even able to conceive at all?”

“Gorsed,” Gadra says sharply. “You’ve overindulged.”

“It’s an honest question, sister!” he protests.

“Take care not to overstep your bounds,” says Kili with the barest hint of a growl. Nethelion and Eronel lock eyes.

It had started out so promising. Their mother had entered the feasting hall gowned in regal emerald, head held high and proud, her hand resting easily, if a little possessively, upon their father’s shoulder. The Ironfists’ faces had been absolutely priceless when she’d been introduced, but they had composed themselves enough to incline their heads to her.

“Well met, my lady,” Gadra had said smoothly, elbowing Gorsed’s side until he’d followed suit. Her two children had bowed as well; Cana’s face had held polite curiosity, while Fane had been surly as he’d looked upon them. Nethelion does not relish the prospect of interacting with this particular Ironfist any more than necessary.

Nethelion and his brothers had been included in these formal introductions. He had tried to ignore the way they’d all stared, just as he’d tried not to notice the flecks of gold in Cana’s eyes.  

Their mother's enjoyment of the whole affair had been quite obvious to Nethelion, which gives him no end of amusement. She is the person who had raised him, pestered him into eating greens at dinnertime, pressed athelas into scraped knees and bloody elbows while admonishing him to be more careful. And yet, among her kind, she is still a fiercely spirited youth.

That spirit has given way, now, to a dangerous sharpness as Gorsed continues his drunken rambling. She has not touched a drop of the wine in front of her, and their father has remained more or less sober as well. They listen in steadily mounting anger as their visiting dignitary continues.

“Clearly, your union has been…prolific.”  Gorsed’s wink makes Tauriel curl her lip in disgust. “But do you think your children will be able to continue your line, sire? Being of mixed blood, it is possible that they are…barren, like mules, no?” He shrugs, waving his half-eaten drumstick, as if he is speculating on the weather or the price of gold. Their father’s face is a thundercloud, and their mother looks ready to draw her daggers right then and there.

“Mention our children in such a manner again, and this visit will become very difficult for you,” Tauriel warns him.

“And you should know,” Kili continues, “that as far as I’m concerned, these relations are off to a very poor start.”

“Well, obviously I mean no offense—“

“Brother, you shame us.” Gadra cuts him off, rolling her eyes in embarrassment and pulling Gorsed’s tankard away from him.

“Why are we like mules?” Therin asks. He has been quieter even than usual tonight, pushing his food around. Nethelion shakes his head.

“Nothing you need to worry about, little brother,” says Eronel, and Nethelion nods firmly. Therin shrugs and goes back to picking at his food, covering a yawn with his hand.

“What are you staring at?”

Nethelion is surprised to hear Cana’s voice, as deep as her mother’s but with a more musical lilt. She and her brother have been sitting across the table, but they have all steadily ignored each other. Now, though, it seems her curiosity has drawn her out in spite of Fane’s disapproving look.

“Just listening in,” Nethelion says jauntily, disguising the sick feeling his eavesdropping has left him with. “Elven ears.”

Cana gives the tiniest of grins. It turns to a wry grimace as she turns her gaze down the table to her relatives.

“Is my uncle being an ass?”

“Well. Yes.” Nethelion isn’t sure what the protocol is for this situation, but he has never been one for games. Eronel looks aside at him.

“You’re no diplomat.”

“I deal in the truth, brother,” he replies, grabbing Eronel’s half-empty tankard and taking a swig.

“Oh, Mahal,” Eronel groans. “Be careful with that. I can’t drag you all the way home if you’re too drunk to move.”

“Rhuna can do it, if she ever decides to show her face.”

Cana’s laughter alerts Nethelion to the fact that she is still watching them.

“What?”

“It’s just…you look like elves,” she says, gesturing to her own ears to indicate the brothers’ distinctive points. “But you talk just like dwarrow. Oh, no, I’m the one being an ass now, aren’t I?”

“Nah, just stating fact. We know the difference by now.”

This is true enough. And it helps that the statement comes from a pretty dwarrowdam rather than her drunken uncle. Not that Nethelion has noticed, of course.

Eronel reaches to pull his tankard back toward him, giving Nethelion a welcome distraction from this line of thought. He tugs back, and the ale spills into their plates and over their hands. They all laugh, including Cana.

“And you drink like dwarrow, too,” she says, pushing some of her deep auburn hair behind her ear.

“The elven blood only helps us,” Eronel says, boasting a little. Now that Cana has made the first few overtures of politeness, he is more comfortable. “We can outdrink anyone in this room when it comes to ale, except for Amad. Even Therin could, I’d wager.”

From down the table, Nethelion sees their mother’s head whip towards them. Her irritated expression tells them exactly what she thinks of their joke.

“If the two of you are even thinking of giving your brother alcohol—“

“Relax, Amad!" Nethelion laughs, softly enough that their conversation is lost to dwarven ears. "Your baby’s still innocent. Aren’t you, little brother?”

But Therin’s eyes are focused past them.

“Rhuna’s here.”

They follow Therin’s gaze to see their sister walk into the hall alongside their grandmother, draped in purple and glittering red, looking every inch the regal dwarrowdam. Rhuna tugs at her sleeves and adjusts her gigantic earrings; she isn’t quite at ease in the finery, but shares a grin with Dis nonetheless. Nethelion is taken aback for several moments at the sight of her.  

“That is your sister?” Cana asks. Fane has turned around in his chair to watch as well. Rhuna is smiling at first, but her expression falters when she lays eyes upon their mother.

With Gorsed she had been quietly intimidating, but with their grandmother, it seems that Tauriel has lost patience for subtlety. She stands and stalks toward the resplendent pair, her red sheet of hair billowing out behind her. Her voice carries well throughout the hall when she speaks, even amid the boisterous noise of dwarves.

“Dis. What have you done?”

Their grandmother grins, smug as a cat. “I cannot show off my only granddaughter?”

“You are parading her before this court like livestock, and I will not have it.”

Dis drops her jaw in affront. Nethelion has known her long enough to see this for the act that it is, to goad his mother. “She is a princess of a dwarven kingdom, whether you like it or not. Does it anger you so much, to see her show pride in that? Perhaps it is time for you to accept that your daughter isn’t all elf.”

“And she isn’t all dwarf, no matter how much gold and finery you pile on her.” Their mother’s expression is scornful as she looks Rhuna up and down. From his vantage point, Nethelion can see his sister’s face fall.

Dis and Tauriel glare at each other. Nethelion sees his father and uncles sitting with eyes wide, staring carefully away from the females. Around the hall conversations have quieted somewhat as dwarves turn to watch the spectacle. Rhuna crosses her arms across her chest, clearly trying her best to disappear. From their seats, her brothers cringe on her behalf.

“No. No, no, no. Stop.”

“Oh, Mahal, she’s miserable.”

“Why? Why in public?”

“Poor thing,” Cana echoes softly, touching nervous hands to her sideburns. Nethelion isn’t sure she means for anyone to hear her.

Nethelion gets up, slapping Eronel on the shoulder as he goes. “Make a place for when we get back.”

Eronel nods in understanding, and Nethelion strides over to where the females of his family are gathered. Tauriel has adopted a deadly stillness, and Dis smirks at her, believing she’s won. They are so caught up in their stalemate that neither of them spares a glance for Rhuna, who has screwed her eyes shut against the torture of so many prying eyes on her.

He taps her shoulder, and she looks at him like he’s the second coming of Mahal himself.

“I’m not hungry anymore, _khazush,_ ” he says flippantly, as if the eyes on them are of no consequence. “Want to take a walk?”

Rhuna nods quickly, relief flooding her face, and the two of them simply leave. No one says anything or tries to stop them. As they go, Nethelion throws a hard look over his shoulder at his mother. She and Dis have the grace to look a little chagrined; he sees Tauriel place her fingers on her temples as if to ward off a headache. Nethelion understands; he isn’t sure how the evening could have gone worse for her. But she is well aware that the four of them have spent their entire lives trying to avoid public spectacle, even among friends, and especially among strangers.

They leave arm in arm, rounding a few corners into a deserted corridor. Only then, when they have left the noise of the hall behind, does Rhuna let her tears spill over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hated to end it here, but the good news is that the next chapter is half-written already! Hopefully I can manage a speedy update. Thank you all for reading along, it means the world :)


	5. Rhuna/Therin

Rhuna is grateful for the darkness and quiet of the corridor they find themselves in as they make their escape from the feasting hall. Even more so, she is grateful for Nethelion’s presence. Perhaps it is because he is the eldest of her brothers, or because he is trained in combat, but Rhuna feels a sense of safety with him that she rarely finds elsewhere. They find a bench to sit on, and she lets her tears soak into his broad shoulder.

“Should we talk,” Nethelion asks, a little uncertain what to do with a teary female, “or just sit here?”

“Talk, I think,” she sniffs. “Sorry for the crying. I feel so stupid.”

He shakes his head. “You were just caught in the crossfire of a ‘dam fight in front of everyone. I’d be crying too if it were me.”

Rhuna cannot help but laugh. Yes, she is glad it is this brother who came to her rescue. “Half a ‘dam fight.”

“Amad can fight like a ‘dam. It counts.” They share a hesitant grin, but when Rhuna is silent, he continues. “Just remember that it isn’t about you. It’s the stupid game they play, and you know they both have to try and win.”

“Still.” She swipes at her eyes. “They could have waited.” 

Nethelion nods, giving her shoulders a firm squeeze as her tears begin to subside. She unclasps the cuffs from her ears, looking wistfully down at them. They really are magnificent, but she feels distinctly queasy thinking about the mess they’d caused.

“Those look really uncomfortable.”

“Oh, they are,” she says. “But they’re so beautiful, and Grandmother was so happy when she gave them to me. I didn’t think it would upset Amad. Not that much, anyway.”

“She was probably just surprised. You didn’t see what she’s dealt with tonight.”

“Well, you didn’t see her face,” Rhuna says, looking down into her lap as she recalls the dawning misery of that moment. The disapproval in her mother’s eyes had felt harsher than a slap, and the memory hurts.

“I’d wager,” says Nethelion, rolling his eyes, “that Grandmother knew Amad wouldn’t take it well.”

“You don’t think…did she use me to make Amad angry?” 

“They do love to get under each other’s skin. I don’t know what to think, _khazush._ I’m just sorry you were in the middle of it.”

She shrugs, the tears starting again. “It’s probably my own fault for thinking I could really be part of something. I just wanted to fit _somehow._ ”

“Rhuna—“

“I know you get tired of it too.” Her wave of frustration rises quickly and releases. “Don’t you ever wish we were like everyone else? I know things are mostly good here, but it would be nice if folk would actually _speak_ to us instead of just whispering behind our backs _._ ”

“Royalty’s lonely, Rhuna. Whether you’re elf, dwarf, or whatever it is we are.” They break off for the tiniest of laughs at that. “It’s what Uncle Thorin always says, and it’s true. Closer you are to the throne, the fewer real friends you have. You’ve got me, though, and Therin and Eronel. No matter what, remember?”

“I know. I’d go mad if it weren’t for that.” She draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her gem-covered arms around them. “It’s everyone _else_ I’m confused about. Amad and Grandmother, especially. I don’t know how to be what they want. It feels like I disappoint someone no matter what I do.”

Nethelion is quiet. She looks up at him, seeing his outline in the dim light. His dark hair is pulled back into a tight knot, exposing his neck and the set of his jaw beneath the thin brown scruff he calls a beard. When he was younger, he used to always wear his hair shaggy and long, to cover the ears that set him apart. He’d never talked about it, but Rhuna had understood the purpose. Now, though, Nethelion walks taller and smiles much more; a far cry from the sullen thing he’d been in his thirties and early forties. Rhuna wonders what exactly it is that has changed him, and wonders if she can look forward to it herself. Nethelion has always been the one to pave the way, after all.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that it doesn’t matter what they want, in the end. Nobody can tell you how to be. We’re making our own way here. I’ve tried to fit in as a dwarf too, but it doesn’t do any good. All it does is hurt.”

He looks away for a moment, and Rhuna feels an urge to lift the cloud that seems to settle over him.

“Now you’re so wise all of a sudden, since you’re in the guard?” she teases, and he gives her the smile she’d hoped for.

“Wiser than you. I’m the oldest, so I have to be the wisest.” He nudges her shoulder. “And it doesn’t matter so much in the guard. As long as I can fight, no one makes much fuss about what I am.”

“I should have paid attention when Amad and Adad were teaching us to shoot.”

He laughs. “You didn’t pay attention because you were bored! What did I just say? You can’t force yourself to be something you aren’t. It catches up with you.”

Rhuna nods, and they lapse into silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, she laughs at them.

“We’re supposed to be having fun tonight, you realize. And all we’ve done is mope.”

Nethelion grins at that. “Then let’s go have fun. Forget about everything and come back to the feast. You haven’t even eaten yet! Bombur’s outdone himself. And you need to get a good look at the Ironfists.”

His sudden enthusiasm is catching, Rhuna finds. And she _is_ curious about their guests. She dabs at her eyes one more time, wishing briefly that she had a mirror.

“What are they like?”

“Hard to say.” Nethelion shrugs. “At least one of them is an absolute drunken fool. Amad and Adad hate him already, I think. The younger ‘dam with them, she’s nice, though.”

Maybe there is something about the way he says it, or the way he ducks his head at the mention of this young dwarrowdam, but Rhuna sees something delicate that she has never seen in Nethelion before. It puts her in mind of an animal exposing its belly, a sudden vulnerability that he masks as soon as he can.

“Nethelion?” Her confident oldest brother actually _squirms_ under her searching look, and Rhuna can feel her smile threatening to split her face apart. “Oh, wait. Do you—“

“Can’t hear you!” In an instant he is up and headed back toward the feasting hall. Rhuna jumps up and jogs to catch up with him, laughing all the while. 

* * *

 

_The dream is vivid tonight. There is fire in the mountain, fire behind his eyes. Faces pass through Therin’s sight one by one, dwarves and men at the Lonely Mountain’s gates. Some of the faces are set with grimaces of pain, some bathed in blood, some lifeless as stone._

_There are other things, jumbled and confused. Therin cannot keep up with it all. He sees a glinting golden ring, its dark stone throbbing with a heartbeat all its own._

_His eldest brother’s voice, low and dark. “Do whatever you want to me, but if you hurt them, I swear by Mahal that you will pay.”_

_A tall figure on a fast horse, riding forth from the mountain alongside someone in a black cloak. The figure’s hair is long and vibrant red; there is only one person it can be._

_“Amad!” Therin calls, but she doesn’t look back. The scene changes once again and he is in the thick of battle, everyone is screaming, the stench of fear and loss makes him nauseous and he just wants to wake up, please let him wake up—_

_“Therin Half-Elven. Never in my years have I seen the likes of you.”_

_As suddenly as the terrors had come, they disappear. Therin finds himself in a courtyard of stone, circled by great trees whose roots stretch taller than him, taller even than his mother. In the middle of the courtyard there is a basin of carved stone. And behind the basin stands the lady he has dreamed of once before, dressed in a cloak of pure white._

_He gawks up at her. The lady is impossibly tall and lovely beyond belief, with hair that shines like gold and silver. A chain, thin as a breath, circles her forehead and clasps her hair back from pointed ears. An elleth, then. Somehow this calms him, just a bit._

_“Wh-who are you?”_

_She inclines her head in greeting. “You may think of me as the Lady of the Wood. It is…interesting to make your acquaintance. I have never conversed with such a one as you.”_

_Slowly, Therin’s heart begins to settle in his chest. He looks around again. It is a beautiful place; he has never seen trees so grand. There is a trickling waterfall behind the basin, and its music is a balm. It is as peaceful as a dream, and yet Therin just has a feeling…_

_“You’re real, aren’t you?” he says, and she smiles._

_“As real as you are, child. My woods are far from your mountain, but in the realm of dreams we may meet, for you and I have much in common.”_

_She is not speaking, not with her mouth. But Therin hears her._

_“Are you here to help me?”_

_He hates how small he sounds, but he_ feels _small in the presence of this elleth. Her smile slides away at his question._

_“I cannot take your visions from you. They are yours to endure. Your sight is long, Therin Half-Elven, and you bear witness to sorrows that are yet to come.”_

_His eyes grow wide as they meet her sea-blue ones. “So they aren’t just dreams.”_

_“I think you already knew that.”_

_He nods. “But what good are visions if I can’t even remember what I’ve seen?”_

_She takes her time before answering. “I have been aware of you for some years, child, and only now am I able to reach out to you this way. As you have grown, your mind has become better able to bear the abilities that you possess. I think, after this, that you will find it easier to recall. Tell me, how many years have you seen?”_

_“Twenty-two,” he says, and for a moment she looks terribly sad._

_“You carry a great burden for one so young,” she says. “But the long sight can be a gift. There is always sweet to temper the bitter. Do not wish it away just yet, for I offer you what guidance I can.”_

_Therin nods solemnly. So far there has been no joy in his dreams, only frightening things. “I don’t think I want to see the future. I’m afraid.”_

_“As am I,” she says quietly. ”As am I. May we each grow stronger in the time to come.” She steps toward him, and very slowly stretches her arm down to touch his temple with one long finger. It is a strange touch, nothing like his parents’ hugs or the shoulder bumps of his older siblings. But Therin thinks it might have the same kind of thought behind it. The lady’s eyes are tender as she looks down upon him._

_“Rest now, Aule’s child. I will come to you again,” she says, and the dream fades away as if by her very command._

 

Therin blinks awake to see the beginnings of morning sun through his small window, feeling better than he has in weeks. There is no trace of sweat on his brow, no tangled sheets, no shouting or tears. Even better, the memories are clear as day, both the unpleasant visions and the lady who had given him relief.

He turns on his pillow to face the window. It is nothing but a narrow slit in the mountainside, really, offering no view outside. But Therin can still envision the lady in her wood, somewhere out there. He wonders if she can see him even now, while he is awake. After what he had seen and learned the night before, it wouldn’t surprise him.

He smiles up at the brightening sunbeam, just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Khazush" is the Khuzdul term for "sister" if my source is correct. I like to think of it as an affectionate term. 
> 
> This is the quickest update that will ever happen, probably :D New chapters will probably come a little more slowly for a while, because next week I start fall classes, plus internship, plus work. But I do hope to keep a pretty regular schedule, and I hope you continue to enjoy! Feel free to let me know what you think, comments always make my day :)


	6. Kili

Kili arrives in the council chamber at mid-afternoon, which is still far earlier than he would have liked. When he is lucky—which, admittedly, is most of the time—his days are spent alongside Master Dwalin, making his rounds as a senior guardsman. There is a small but spirited contingent of young dwarrow who have chosen the bow as their weapon, and Kili has gladly taken on the task of training them. Today, however, he is forced to cut those duties short in favor of trade meetings. He may have settled into the permanence of life under the mountain, and accepted his role as his brother’s right hand, but he has never developed a taste for the endless _meetings._ At least this one is to be small, just him and Fili with the Ironfist lord and lady. Kili curls his lip as he thinks on the previous night, and Gorsed’s smug expression as he’d spewed his obnoxious opinions. For the sake of his own sanity, Kili hopes that they can accomplish things quickly today.

As he might have expected, Kili finds himself the last to arrive. Fili is in place at the head of the large table, a look of easy politeness on his face as he speaks with their visitors. Gorsed and Gadra sit side by side to his right, wearing rich red garments that signify their clan, and Kili idly wonders if they are twins. They are more advanced in age than Kili or Fili, and have been groomed to nobility from birth. Kili might have found this daunting at one time. But he and his brother have been under the mountain for so long now, after spending the last remains of their youth in trial by fire to prove themselves leaders, that they are no longer so easily intimidated. Kili just nods to the small gathering as he sits down and props his feet up on the table.

“Brother,” Fili greets him. The Ironfists bob their oak-brown heads in a matching acknowledgment, Gadra’s beads clicking against the stone table as her hair swings forward. She is cool and composed, as she has been since the moment she’d arrived under the mountain, while her brother wears his ever-present broad grin. The sight of it nearly puts Kili off his lunch.

“Now that we are gathered,” says Fili, eager to begin, “I suppose we can commence our business. If we are to reach resolution any time soon, there is much to discuss.”

“If you don’t mind, your majesty, before we start.” Gorsed stands to approach Fili, good-humored as ever, though the unfamiliar eastern accent is sharp and harsh to Kili’s ears. He reaches into his pocket and draws out a small box, which he opens to reveal a ring.

“An offering of thanks for receiving us here, from the finest jewelers Orocarni has to offer. Opening relations with Durin’s Folk will bring a new era for both our clans.”

“Then let us hope we can come to an agreement,” Fili replies, still looking down at Gorsed’s gift. A large dark stone is set within the gold band, glinting brilliantly even in the dim cavern light of the mountain. It is not an ornate piece, but Kili can see that it is finely made. Fili takes the box with his thanks and slips it into his pocket, but not before turning the ring a few times in his hand to admire the craftsmanship. The shine of the stone seems almost rhythmic, a mesmerizing pulse. Kili blinks. Surely it must be a trick of the light.

“For you as well, sire, with our thanks,” says Gorsed, turning to Kili and holding out a second box. This ring is silver, with a deep blue stone.  

“And,” he goes on, lowering his voice, “an apology. In the light of day I see that my words were uncalled for last night. But I don’t want my loose tongue to stand in the way of what our clans can do for each other.”

Kili listens with half an ear, still staring at the ring. Gorsed moves the box slightly in his hand, and a green glint comes out beneath the flawless blue surface of the stone. Kili feels an urge to reach out and inspect it further, but then he glances up at the dwarf offering it.

_Like mules, no?_

Gorsed’s words from the previous night echo back in Kili’s mind, and he is incensed all over again. A surge of revulsion cuts through the desire, and Kili retracts his hand.

“I don’t need your gifts, but the apology I will take.” He chokes the words out, still far from happy. Gorsed seems satisfied, though, inclining his head to Kili with a smile as if he notices no tension.

“All right, so the formalities are done with,” says Fili, slapping his hands down on the table. Kili snorts, finding ‘formalities’ a very loose term for what has just occurred. “Now I can take this thrice-cursed thing off.”

Fili removes the tall golden crown, rolling his shoulders as he does so, and places it on the table next to him. Gorsed follows it with his eyes, and Gadra smirks. She has yet to say a word, seemingly content to let her brother handle the courtly posturing and introductions. Kili has a sneaking suspicion that she will be much more opinionated once the real work begins.

Fili cracks his knuckles. “Why don’t you start by telling us more about what drew you here in the first place.”

“Our clan is very much isolated in the Red Mountains, your majesty.” Gadra does indeed take over, fixing her gaze upon Fili and Kili with a directness that they do not often see from visiting dwarves. As Durin’s Folk they are used to being bowed to and tiptoed around. It is still early to make lasting impressions of the Ironfist clan, but Kili sees that their leaders do not lack in confidence.

“We have trade partners in the other clans that reside in the mountains, as well as the tribes of men you call Easterlings. But this limited trade no longer meets our needs.”

“You ally with the Easterlings?” Kili asks, frowning. He imagines the masked, sinister, warlike men he has heard about in tales.

“There is little choice,” she replies dryly. “As I said, there are few options in a land so remote. The men offer us what they can, and we do the same in return. But if we were more connected to the west, perhaps we would not have to rely so heavily on the Easterlings.”

“So you are willing to put away the ages of hostility between our clans,” Kili challenges. “Just like that.”

“It is the feud of our fathers and grandfathers,” Gorsed puts in. “Not our own.”

Fili nods emphatically at this. “And a trade agreement between us would serve to further unite the seven clans. We have been out of touch too long, I think.”

Kili’s brow unknots a bit at his brother’s optimism. As King Under the Mountain, Fili has striven to ease some of the legendary stubbornness of their people. He welcomes relations with men, elves, and dwarves alike, lifting the shroud of secrecy that had been so thick around the Erebor of old. His openness is what makes him a great king, so different than Thorin would have been if he had chosen to take the throne. Fili has made Erebor more than just a magnificent fortress; it is a kingdom that breathes with life.

Kili supposes that he himself has had a part in the transformation as well. Fili’s near-unshakeable trust in others must be balanced with skepticism and caution. Kili is usually the one to provide this; from his place at Fili’s right hand, he can often dissuade his brother from rushing headlong into things. Many of the older dwarrow on Fili’s council—especially Balin, Kili thinks with a pang of loss—never quite got used to the increased thoughtfulness in the spare prince as he’d matured. Even now, the “reckless” reputation hangs on him like an ill-fitting helm, one that he has long since outgrown.

Having a family so young is bound to change a person, Kili suspects. Most dwarrow he knows are more inclined to wait until they have passed their first century to start having children, but he and Tauriel are nothing if not unconventional. Unnecessary risk and carelessness had lost their appeal for him the moment he’d held his first babe in his arms. While his peers had spent their eighties and nineties beholden to none but themselves, Kili had had four tiny beings to keep safe and warm. Though he likes to think he has retained his humor, it is undeniable that the years have brought him down to earth.

This becomes especially obvious in matters of politics, when he must keep his idealistic brother’s head from disappearing into the clouds.

“What do you propose to offer us for your side of the agreement?” Fili inquires.

“We have much gold to spare,” Gadra says. “Game and goods that you will not find west of the Red Mountains. And military aid whenever you should have the need.”

“Gold is abundant here as well,” Kili points out. “As are soldiers. These are not exactly incentives to bind our clans.”

“But if the need should arise,” Gadra presses, “would a power to the east not be advantageous?”

“And gold is always valuable, if not to us, then to our allies here.” Fili shoots Kili a brief look. _Stand down,_ it says. Kili raises his eyebrows and bites his tongue.

The discussion wears on and on, far longer than it needs to. Fili details the terms he is willing to come to in order to form an agreement, and the Ironfists do much more negotiating than is really prudent for folk in their position. Gorsed’s infuriating smile never leaves his face; the longer Kili stares at it, the more he wants to punch something. Yes, there is something slimy about this dwarf, even while sober and silent.

_You came to us!_ Kili wishes he could shout at them. _You hold no power here! Take the terms or leave them!_ But instead he lets the discussion wash over him; having been silenced by his brother, he sees no reason to contribute further. He is burning to speak with Fili alone, but he knows his place. Brother or not, he must wait for the king to conduct his business.

Finally, _finally,_ they adjourn for the evening. Kili has not seen a window all day, but they have been shut away in the council chamber long enough that he thinks night must be falling.

“When we are ready,” Fili offers as they all stand, “we will appoint someone to draw up a written agreement. Our best scribe is…no longer with us.”

“Oh. Tis a shame to lose a good scribe,” says Gorsed. “Can I ask what happened?”

Fili swallows. “He and several others of my council attempted to reclaim the mines of Khazad-dum several weeks ago. They thought the ruins would be empty, but they were met with a Balrog. All perished.”

Gorsed and Gadra look at each other.

“We had not heard you were planning to move on Khazad-dum,” says Gadra slowly.

“But word from the west does not often reach us until far after the fact,” Gorsed continues.

There is a charged silence, in which no one quite knows what to say. Fili clears his throat. Gadra fixes her eyes upon her shoes. Finally, Kili puts an abrupt end to the waiting.

“There will be an escort waiting outside the door, to show you back to your rooms,” he says, trying for a tone that is not too harsh. “Good night, sir, madam.”

“Enjoy the ring, your majesty.” Gorsed’s grin curls back onto his face as he holds up his own hand, laden with jewels.   

“I’m sure I will,” Fili replies, tapping his pocked in acknowledgment. Dismissed, Gorsed and Gadra incline their heads once more leaving the chamber. Kili waits until they have gone before whirling on his brother.

“They’ve been here one day and already you want to sign a contract? Brother, please think about this.”

“I _am_ thinking about it. Don’t take this wrong, but…you may not be the most objective voice on the matter, after last night,” says Fili carefully.

“You mean when Gorsed enlightened us on how my children may or may not _breed?”_ Kili throws up his hands. “He’s a prick, Fili!”

“Of course he is, but we don’t have to like him to have a diplomatic relationship. We could unite the clans again, brother! That can only be a good thing.”

“But have we not spent our entire time here trying to clean the gold _out_ of the mountain? And now you want more?”

Fili shakes his head. “It isn’t that I want the gold, or that we need this alliance. It’s a show of good will, a chance to draw more allies to the mountain. It’s what we’ve been doing since we got back, and I want to do it again. Have I steered us wrong yet, brother?”

Kili sighs. “No. But—“

“So trust me. Don’t think about Gorsed. Think about the greater good we can do here. Orocarni is a wasteland, Kili, they need us.”

It is clear that his brother is in earnest, and that nothing will sway him from his conviction. He admires this about Fili, he truly does, even when he himself might have erred on the side of caution. He sighs, ready to admit defeat for the moment.

“All right, brother. I trust you.”

They knock foreheads before parting ways, and Kili sets an eager pace for home.

His children greet him absentmindedly as he trudges through the front door of their quarters. Eronel and Therin are at the dining table, heads together over a book, while Runa rummages around the kitchen. For a moment Kili looks around for Nethelion, but has to remind himself that his eldest no longer sleeps in the family quarters. He has moved into the barracks with the other new guardsmen. The group is mostly too young to be married, but old enough to crave some freedom from their parents’ quarters. Kili knows that it is good for Nethelion to be among them, but their home still seems quiet without him.

He enters their bedchamber to see his wife already there, sitting perfectly upright in bed. She blinks a bit as he crosses her line of sight, and he knows he has disturbed her meditation. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, smiling at him as he shuts the door.

“You’re in bed already?”

“I am hiding from our daughter,” she admits, looking down at her lap.

“Oh.” He hops on one foot to get his boot off, tossing it to the floor and kicking out of the other. “Has she said something?”

“Nothing. She says nothing.” Consternation knits Tauriel’s brow. “If she would only let me know what she is thinking, perhaps I could make things better. But she is like a stone wall today.”

Kili nods. It sounds as if little has changed from when he’d seen Rhuna that morning, over a quieter-than-usual breakfast. Her smile for Tauriel had been as false as any he’d ever seen, doing a frankly terrible job of pretending that nothing was wrong.

“I want to understand her,” she continues on a sigh. “It seems to get more and more difficult. And last night certainly was no help.”

“How long are you planning to berate yourself over that?”

“It has only been one day, Kili,” she huffs, avoiding his knowing gaze. “I think I am entitled to a little more berating.”

“Yes, but how long?”

She looks up at him from the bed, an uncertain little frown on her face. “I thought forever might be appropriate?”

“Oh, my love.” He sits on the edge of the bed and takes her face in his hands, kissing her nose. “Will I ever convince you not to be so harsh with yourself? Just give it a bit of time, she’ll come around.”

Tauriel smiles; the sight of it, framed by his hands, lifts his spirit somewhat. He is still tired, and hungry, and brimming with unease that he cannot seem to shake. But there is always the warmth of home and the face of his beloved to soothe the aches of the day, whatever they might be.

“Well,” says Tauriel, turning her head to place a quick kiss into Kili’s right palm, “enough about my failings. How was the meeting?”

Now it is Kili’s turn to sigh.  

“ _Long._ But interesting, I think.”

“And how did you leave things?”

“Fili has it in his head that we have a responsibility to ally with them. Isolated in the mountains, cut off from the west. They’re disadvantaged, they say. And you know Fili, always so noble. The talks will take a while longer, just to tighten up the deal, but he’s made up his mind.”

“I am much more interested in what _you_ think, _a’maelamin.”_

Kili rubs a hand over his face. “Well, you’re the first person to say that to me all day.”

“I will always say it. Your judgments carry great weight.” Tauriel moves to seat herself behind him, deftly loosening the braids in his hair. He tips his head back, inviting her touch. Inch by inch, he begins to feel like himself again.

“I’ll stand by my brother, of course. But I think it’s strange that he wants to bend over so far backwards for them. We don’t need more gold, and we don’t know this clan. They have given us no reason to trust them. And now Fili’s all but decided to form a binding alliance with them.” He takes the beads that Tauriel has unfastened from his hair, pocketing them as she combs through the locks with gentle fingers. “It feels hasty.”

She gives a thoughtful hum. “If we must deal with these Ironfists, I only wish that we could do so from afar. Is that terrible?”

“If it is, then I’m just as terrible as you. Today was trying.”

He groans in pure relief at the feel of her fingers unlacing the heavy courtly tunic he has worn all day, and raises his arms so that she can strip the garment off. Her breath is warm against his bare shoulder as she presses her body to his, wrapping around his back and snaking her hands up to caress his chest.

“Then we shall put it behind us,” she whispers into his neck, as one hand makes its way down to nestle in the thick hair beneath his navel. The other moves up and down his ribs in slow, feather-light strokes, and Kili shuts his eyes as heat rushes through him.

“Agreed.” He leans back against her shoulder with an eager sigh, kissing her neck, her ear, her lips, taking her breathy laugh into his mouth as a promise of bliss to come. 


	7. Eronel/Nethelion

The kingdom of Erebor is designed vertically, the streets moving deeper underground instead of sprawling wide as they do in Dale. Many of these public streets take the form of staircases, and because of this, getting around without help is often an impossibility for Eronel. With only one leg that bends, his gait is slow, awkward, and more painful than he likes to admit. Each step requires him to swivel his hip forward in order to lift the heavy wooden apparatus attached to the stump of his right thigh. On level ground it is difficult; on stairs, it is too much to ask.

Really, it is only a problem when he leaves the royal wing. Living there means that the necessities are on the same level, as the family conducts much of their lives apart from the general populace of Erebor. He and his siblings had all gone to school there; Rhuna and Therin still do. There is a library and a training arena for their exclusive use. And they are lucky enough to have a direct path out of the mountain from their living quarters; it had been Kili’s gift to their mother when she’d moved in.

There are times, though seldom, when Eronel must leave the safety and relative convenience of the royal wing. Today is one such instance; Bofur has tinkered together a new leg contraption for him to try. His home is farther underground, down a steep staircase. Eronel supposes that he could have invoked his princely authority and just sent for Bofur, but he refuses to be more of an inconvenience than he has to be.

“You didn’t have to come with me, Adad,” he says, walking with his father beside him. “I could have gotten a guard.”

“What better guard is there than me?” says Kili lightly. “Except probably your mother, of course. But she’s on duty, and if I didn’t come in her place she would kill me herself.”

Eronel smiles, but it falters quickly. He reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck, and then at the black scruff on his jaw. If his father notices his uncharacteristic fidgeting, he says nothing.

“Adad,” he finally blurts out. “I need theoretical advice.”

This piques his father’s interest. “Theoretical?”

“For now, yes.”

“All right, then I’m theoretically listening.”

Eronel takes a silent breath to steady himself before speaking. “Say that you knew someone who was keeping a secret. And that person told you about it in strict confidence, and you swore that you would keep silence. But it is a _huge,_ monumental thing, and you really aren’t prepared to manage it by yourself.” He swallows hard. “Theoretically.”

Therin would have killed him, of course, if he’d known this conversation was taking place. But Eronel is at a loss. Of all the things he’d ever expected to hear from his little brother, prophetic visions would have been his last guess. And yet Therin’s face had looked so haunted, so earnest, when he’d finally confessed everything that Eronel could not doubt him. His brother isn’t crazy, and he wouldn’t lie. The visions are frightening and confusing, he says; in the past week he has come bursting into Eronel’s room several times in the middle of the night.

The only coherent detail Therin has given from his dreams is the elf-lady in her stone courtyard, circled by trees. The Lady of the Wood, he’d said. Eronel has the distinct feeling he’s read that somewhere before, and he has spent the past week searching the library for clues. Sometimes Therin helps him. But any time Eronel presses him for more specifics about the dreams, he remains frustratingly tight-lipped.

The secret lies in the pit of his stomach like a rock, and there is a measure of release in speaking of it aloud, even in such a roundabout way. His father’s pace has slowed, listening to Eronel’s nervous spiel, until he stops to stare up into his eyes.

“Right. My theoretical advice is for you to stop dancing around the thing and be honest. If you’re in trouble, Eronel, I need to know.”

“It’s not me.”                     

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“It isn’t, Adad! I swear. If it was me I would tell you.”

“No you wouldn’t. None of you would. You would rather rip out your hair than admit you need help.”

“And I wonder how we turned out that way?” Eronel gives his father a tiny, knowing smirk. After a long moment, Kili chuckles.

“Fine, point taken. Stubbornness runs in your blood on both sides. But that doesn’t mean I’ll take secrecy lightly. If you aren’t in trouble, then who?”  

Eronel sighs. “I told you, I can’t.”

“Well, should I be worried?”

“Not…yet. I don’t think so. It’s just not the right time yet, Adad. Trust me.”

“Been hearing a lot of that lately,” he mutters. Eronel isn’t sure what to say to this, so they walk along for a while in silence. He feels a little guilty, burdening his father with more stress on top of the talks with the Ironfists. The trade talks have been ongoing for the past two weeks, and he can see his father’s tension ratcheting up the longer their visiting dignitaries are within the mountain. Eronel is no expert on trade, treaties, and the like, but he doesn’t know what could possibly be taking them so long to settle the talks. Kili comes home many evenings muttering about holdups with the council or unreasonable demands. Eronel often listens and feels helpless.

He is saved from having to find an immediate reply for his father when they reach the stairs. Familiar dread swoops through his stomach. Kili doesn’t say a word as Eronel grips his shoulder for support, white-knuckling his cane with the other hand.

There are twenty steps. Eronel counts them in his head as they make the arduous trek down. Dwarrow rush past them on their errands, casting quick bows and uncertain looks in their direction as they go. Eronel feels beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he maneuvers his wooden leg, aiming it very precisely so that it never slips off the edge of a step. The hip cramps begin about halfway down, throbbing with every movement until they finally reach the bottom.

“The trip up will be easier after we see Bofur,” Kili offers quietly, and Eronel nods. His eyes are screwed shut as he collects himself, mastering the pain, preparing for the last few steps to Bofur’s home. But his knee buckles suddenly, and he lets out a vile curse as he lurches off-balance. Passerby give him sharp, startled looks as they hurry past.

Dwarves aren’t typically offended by foul language; Eronel suspects they are reacting to the fact that his expletive was Sindarin.

One old dwarrow covers the ears of his curious grandchild, hustling away with a glare over his shoulder. Eronel recognizes a protective reflex when he sees one. It is like a punch to the gut, knowing that his own folk fear him, and in that moment it is too much to bear silently.

 _“Tolo anin naur,”_ he snarls after the dwarrow. The words might be innocuous enough, but his tone is so ugly that his meaning must be unmistakable. The child looks back, wide-eyed, but his elder keeps his back resolutely turned. Eronel stares after them, anger curling in his stomach. Intellectually he knows that it is just bluster to hide his embarrassment, but his blood is running too hot for logic.

“All right, son. All right.” His father braces him with a hand on his back. Eronel takes a few breaths, closing his eyes until he feels calmer. When he blinks them open again, he sees a faraway expression on his father’s face. There is something about his frown that makes Eronel think his mind is on the accident; he is reminded that Kili also understands a little something about feeling helpless.

“I’m sorry.”

His father shrugs. “No need. You’re allowed a lapse every once in a while.”

“I just…”

Eronel doesn’t know how to finish the statement. His father just nods, though, letting the silence speak for both of them.

“Ready to go the rest of the way? It’s just a few steps.”

Eronel nods, steadying himself. “Yes. We can go now."

* * *

 

The best of summer is over, giving way to crisper air and chillier winds outside the mountain. Nethelion misses the heat; for him it is comfortable rather than oppressive. It is one way he has ended up on the winning side of their jumble of elven and dwarven qualities; he, Therin, and their mother are not particularly affected by the elements. For reasons unknown, Rhuna and Eronel do not share this lucky trait; they are left at the mercy of the weather along with their father, and always look forward to milder climes.

His bunkmate and fellow novice guardsman, Arval, similarly rejoices in the backing off of the summer heat.

“I don’t have to sweat through my clothes now, at least,” he says as they trek out of the mountain. They are off duty, and have decided to take the afternoon for target practice.

“That does sound unpleasant. For some folk,” Nethelion replies, grinning.

“Yes, rub it in, why don’t you?” Rhuna grumbles. She and Therin have tagged along with them—Therin to check on his loyal pet fox, and Rhuna for the novelty of spending time with a dwarf who isn’t a member of their family. It is one reason why Nethelion is glad he’s moved to the barracks. The accommodations are not nearly as luxurious, of course, but he’s been lucky to find Arval. It is difficult for Nethelion and his siblings to attract friends under the mountain; being of mixed blood and royal blood, most dwarrow steer clear. Arval is a good sort, though, training with him when no one else would and making little mention of the obvious differences between them.

They settle on a spot within a reasonable distance from two solid trees. The ever-watchful red fox shows its face almost immediately, snuffling about and doing its strange throaty bark. Rhuna and Therin sit on the ground with it, looking on while Nethelion and Arval notch arrows and fire a practice round. His focus narrows to the rhythm of the shot—so much so that he misses the sound of footsteps behind them

“Interesting choice of weapon,” calls a melodious, accented voice. Startled, Nethelion turns to see Cana walking toward their little group, the afternoon sun at her back. The light catches the red tones in her auburn hair and the gold beads that decorate her sideburns. She nods a greeting at each of them, but raises expectant eyebrows only at Nethelion.

He clears his throat.

“Why is it so interesting?”

“It just isn’t something you see every day.” Her face is impassive as she looks up at him. “A good dwarf loves his steel.”

At this, Nethelion turns, pulls an arrow from the quiver at his back, and sends it sailing into the wood of the tree. The entire maneuver happens in the blink of an eye; it is perhaps the only suave thing he has ever managed in his life. Bolstered by the satisfying thwack of his arrow on its target, he turns to look down at Cana.

“Do I look like a good dwarf to you?”

She smiles wide, then laughs as if she’s discovered something absolutely delightful.

“Exactly as I said on the first night we met. Body of an elf, mouth of a dwarf.”

This comment effectively freezes the workings of Nethelion’s mind, and he can do little but grin and duck his head. But of course his sister can be counted upon to fill any silence.  

“Arval,” says Rhuna, positively beaming as she stands. “Can I try your bow? I’ve been meaning to practice, and I don’t know when else I’ll have time.”

Rhuna has not been meaning to do anything of the kind and they all know it. Nethelion is annoyed to see Arval smirking for all he’s worth as he takes Rhuna aside, leaving him and Cana with a semblance of privacy. He makes a face at them both over Cana’s head; she is shorter even than Arval, barely reaching Nethelion’s elbow.

He clears his throat again and notches another arrow. Cana watches him fire it to land a few inches above the first.

“I am surprised to see you out in the open without a guard.”

“I _am_ a guard,” he informs her. “Arval is, too, but we’ve only just started. And we don’t often take a guard with us out here anyway. We’re usually all together or with some other family.”

“Oh yes. The family keeps watch at all times, of course.”

She says it with a curled lip, as though it is a distasteful thing.

“What do you mean?” Nethelion asks.

“It’s all right. I know what it’s like, having the spare for a parent.” She grimaces, and Nethelion cocks his head in unabashed confusion.

“Um…what is it like?”

She looks around a bit, as if someone might be listening. “You know. All the posturing and plotting to be in charge. It’s hard to watch sometimes.”

Nethelion lowers his bow and looks at her, utterly lost.

“It isn’t like that with your family?” she guesses.

“I can’t think of anything Adad wants less than the throne,” he replies, turning back to take aim again. “There’s no posturing. If anything, he probably leans back too much.”

“He’d rather be Erebor’s arms and legs than its brain.” Therin pipes up from behind them, quoting a favorite flippant remark of their father’s.

“And he and Uncle Fili are brothers, besides,” he goes on. “No throne would get in the way of that. But you have a brother, so you probably understand that.”

“Fane,” she says, curling her lip, “is _not_ my brother.”

Nethelion crinkles his brow.

“He isn’t?”

Cana sighs. “Fane is the son of my mother’s first husband. When he died, Amad took Fane as her own child. He is foster-brother to me, but I would hardly call us family.”

“Oh.” Nethelion frowns at the idea of being thus isolated. He is often the first to complain about the too-crowded life he leads with his family, but the thought of _not_ having it is terrifying.

“Our lives are very different,” he muses, focusing on his shot to avoid looking at her.

“Clearly.” She lightens the moment with a little chuckle. “You and your sister seem thick as thieves.”

The sister in question wiggles her eyebrows at him, clearly eavesdropping, and Nethelion swallows a snide comment with difficulty.

“I saw the way you were with her, at the feast,” Cana goes on, not seeing the exchange. “I cannot imagine Fane being so sensitive.”

His shot goes wide. Rhuna and Arval snicker openly.

“What? I’m not sensitive,” he protests. “I’m a soldier. A soulless killer and all that.”

“All right. I believe that if you do.” Cana’s grin is far too wide. She is close enough that he can see those gold flecks in her eyes, the ones he has been trying not to think about since the first time he’d seen her. Nethelion tries to keep his own mouth from twitching up at the corners, ruining the stern look he is aiming for.

He thinks that now he should probably make a witty remark of some sort, but the fox begins to yap. They turn around to see both it and Therin gazing up at the sky. A large brown bird circles above them, crying out as it moves lower and lower, coming down to eventually rest upon Cana’s shoulder. It isn’t a raven, but it behaves a bit like one, cocking its head to the side to stare expectantly at Cana.

“What in Mahal’s name?” Nethelion jumps back a bit, but Cana does not seem surprised to see their winged visitor. She strokes a finger down its back and gives Nethelion a wry smile.

“Word from home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a tiny cliffhanger until next time ;) I want to thank all of you who have commented and left kudos so far, you have no idea how much it makes my day! I'm really glad to be able to share this with you. More Durin ladies next chapter, hopefully!
> 
> Also, if you haven't read the "Under the Mountain" series that precedes this, and you're confused about the accident Eronel was referring to, I have a story called "Mirkwood" that gets into it.
> 
> Sindarin translation:
> 
> Tolo anin naur="Come to the fire." I think it's supposed to be a friendly expression, but I see Eronel using it in more of a "Come at me, bro" kind of way.


	8. Tauriel/Rhuna

The days when she is posted atop the front gate outside the mountain are Tauriel’s favorite days. She has always thrived outdoors, as many of her kind do, but she thinks that she never truly appreciated it before moving into an enclosure of stone. She can breathe much easier out here. But today the air smells strange; every few breaths or so, Tauriel will get a whiff of something acrid and decayed. Night has not yet fallen, and there are more shadows across the plain than there should be. She narrows her eyes and keeps watching.

 _The darkness did not come over the forest overnight,_ Thranduil had once mused. _It crept slowly, quietly, until we could no longer ignore it._

Tauriel has never had much patience for brooding, and she had often fought not to roll her eyes at her former king’s moods. But now, as a chill wind brushes her hair from her neck, these particular words hold a greater weight.

The hawk had circled the mountain about an hour or so ago. Tauriel had not thought much of it until Dwalin’s messenger raven had alighted on her own shoulder. _Word from Red Mountains,_ it had squawked. _Wait for me._ Dwalin’s guard duties are increasingly ceremonial due to his advancing age, meaning that he spends more and more time in council gatherings. However much he might grumble about slowing down, Tauriel is glad of it in this case.

The moment the master-at-arms appears next to her at the gate, she rounds on him. Anticipation has made her sharp.

“What did you hear? Tell me.”

“Patience is a virtue. Especially for an elf, or so I thought.”

“I have never been particularly virtuous in the ways of my kind. Tell me.”

Dwalin’s smirk disappears. “Evidently there’s been a rock fall in the mountain pass between here and Orocarni. The path back where they came from is blocked, and they won’t be able to clear it before winter.”

Tauriel groans. “You are not serious.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this, lass. From what I heard, the Ironfists are here to stay until the ground thaws.”

She looks around at the trees, still clinging to their summer green. Winter is still a long time in coming.

“And we are expected to simply take their word for this? We permit them to live here until the passing of winter on the advice of a bird?” She turns blazing eyes on Dwalin. “That message could have come from anywhere.”

“You sound like your husband. Not that it did him much good to say so.” Dwalin curls his lip. “His majesty won’t hear a word against any of them, especially that Gorsed. Thick as thieves by now, they are.”

“You see it too then,” Tauriel says, noting Dwalin’s distaste. “He clings to Fili like a shadow.”

 _Like a shadow._ She swallows and looks back out on the plain.

“Twitchy, he is,” Dwalin grunts. “Shifty-eyed, you know? Can’t really put my finger on it.”

Tauriel nods. “Kili is worried. And when Kili worries—“

“—we should all be worried.” Dwalin’s tone is grim. “While we’re on the subject, lass…if I had pointy-eared children half-grown, I’d be cautious about them wandering by themselves. We know that visitors aren’t always friendly for long.”

Tauriel has already thought about this. But hearing it from Dwalin squeezes the fist of fear even tighter around her stomach. Nethelion, at least, has some skill and means of self-protection. But the younger three might keep her up at night. She longs, quite suddenly and fiercely, to embrace each of them, to bring them into their fortress home and lock the door behind her.

She remembers a time long past, when she had snarled at her former king for just such a line of thinking. She had not been able to understand what drew Thranduil so far inward. Their kingdom had needed someone to strive for a greater ideal, and as a young, relatively untested elf, she had been just the one to do it. But idealism always leaves one vulnerable—and vulnerability is something that Tauriel can no longer afford.

“I don’t like this.” Her voice is a whisper. “There is something on the wind, Master Dwalin. Something foul.”

Dwalin considers her words.

“We’re going to need a little more than elf instincts,” he says slowly, “if anything is to be done. Keep those ears open, and I’ll do the same.”

* * *

 

The smell of _athelas_ wafts faintly from the kitchen as Rhuna leaves her room. The sharpness of it makes her smile, and open her eyes a little wider. She follows it to find her mother kneeling on the floor, a single sprig of the dried plant between her thumb and forefinger. Before her is Therin, seated at the table and still below Tauriel’s eye level. They place their identical red heads together to peer at a bloody gash on his forearm.

“It does not look terribly deep,” their mother says, taking Therin’s arm into her hands. “The plant should close it up. But it will sting, my love.”

“I know.” Therin is calm as he regards the blood running down his arm. Their mother meets his eyes before pressing the plant to the gash. He hisses and screws his eyes shut briefly, but the moment passes soon and he looks up at Tauriel, unruffled as ever.

“There now.” She touches his cheek. _“Ionneg_ …I know your sister was with you today, but I want you to be careful. _Please_ be careful.”  

He nods, kicking his legs. “I will. I just fell on the rocks, Amad, it was an accident.”

“How many ‘accidents’ have I patched up over the years, between the four of you?” Their mother shakes her head, smiling. Therin fidgets in his chair.

“Amad,” he says, ducking his head, “do you—“

“I’ll be back for dinner,” Rhuna interrupts, her hand on the door to leave. Their mother lifts her eyes to look at her, still holding Therin’s arm.

“Where are you going?”

“Aunt Corolan holds court today,” Rhuna says. “Um, you could…you could come with me, if…”

“Oh.” Tauriel’s face tightens at the thought of attending court. “I do not think—“

“Right.”

Of course her mother wouldn’t want to come to court with her. Rhuna mentally kicks herself for having asked. She at least has the benefit of her grandmother’s protective shadow, but Tauriel is as out of place among courtly dwarrowdams as a swan in an eagle’s nest, and none of them let her forget it.

She isn’t upset about the feast anymore; any anger she’d felt had burned out quickly. But now she is left with a sense of uncertainty around her mother that is difficult to shake. There is something heavy in the air between them that hadn’t really been there before, questions that Rhuna needs answered. The problem is that she doesn’t know how to ask them, so she resorts to stammering and expectant looks. Tauriel, for her part, seems even more tightly strung than usual, tiptoeing around Rhuna as if she might break.

Her mother has never felt farther away. Feeling lost, Rhuna turns to leave.

The Queen Under the Mountain holds a court of her own three times a week, separate from that of her husband. Her court is different than the king’s in that folk rarely seek an audience with her specifically. So it ends up being a scheduled gossip time for the dwarrowdams in her close circle. Corolan stays mostly above the fray; she is a no-nonsense person, the reserved presence needed to balance her more jovial Durin husband. But she smiles along with the other ‘dams as they go about their clucking.

Rhuna isn’t entirely sure what she is supposed to do while at court, but she likes going anyway. The talk is fun to listen to, and the queen’s throne room is one of the loveliest places under the mountain. The crystals embedded in the walls reflect light from the gleaming gilded floor.

Rhuna makes a beeline for her grandmother’s side as soon as she enters. It is only then that she notices the two guests standing nearby, dressed in their usual deep red.

“You remember Cana, dear heart, and Gadra, her mother,” says Dis as Rhuna draws near. “From the Red Mountains. You met them at the feast.”

Rhuna thinks about saying that she has tried to block the feast from her mind, no thanks to Dis herself. But she isn’t nearly brave enough. She just grins down at Cana instead, still amused by the way Nethelion’s neck had flushed when she’d teased him. Despite her tiny stature, even by dwarven standards, Cana’s presence fills a room. Her mother is much the same; there is something exotic about these two dwarrowdams that draws the eye.

Gadra inclines her head and offers Rhuna a honey-sweet smile.

“Well met, your highness,” she says, and Rhuna lets out a burst of laughter before she can think.

“I’m sorry,” she says to Gadra’s confused look. “It’s just that no one really calls me that. It sounds strange.”

“It is your title.” Dis is indignant. “Folk should use it when they address you.”

Rhuna shrugs. “Most of the folk that address me are relatives anyway, Grandmother.”

Dis gives an exasperated sigh. Rhuna grins back and turns to Cana.

“Have you given my brother any more trouble?” she asks with a wide smile, making it clear that she heartily approves of Cana making Nethelion’s life difficult.

“I may have accosted him in the armory recently.” Cana barely stifles a laugh. “I’m a mean shot with throwing axes, as your brother now knows. I would show off a bit now, but I am not sure this is the right crowd for that sort of thing.”

There is a glint in her eye, and Rhuna can see why Nethelion is so taken with her. The thought makes her swallow a giggle.

“My mother is as well,” Rhuna says. “Nethelion used to try and out-throw her, but he’s realized by now that it’s a waste of effort.”  

“Now that I’d love to see. Will you bring her to court next time?”

Rhuna shakes her head. “Not next time. Next time is the day of _Mereth Nuin Giliath,_ and I have to help prepare _._ But perhaps I might convince her to come the time after that.”

 _“Mereth Nuin Giliath.”_ Cana tests the syllables, chewing on them as one might a strange new food. Several heads turn warily, but most of them turn back to their own business. Dis remains watchful, however, as does Cana’s mother.

“It’s the feast of starlight,” Rhuna says by way of explanation. She hears the dreaminess enter her tone. “A wood elf tradition. We celebrate it every year, just our family. We go out and take food and spend the night under the stars.”

“That sounds beautiful,” says Cana, smiling.

“It is. The stars are more alive that night than any other.”

“Surely you would not have to miss court, though, darling,” her grandmother interjects. “You would be finished here well before nightfall.”

“I know,” Rhuna replies cautiously, “but there is still much to do before the stars come out.”

Dis frowns and opens her mouth again, but suddenly Rhuna cannot bear to hear what might come out. Perhaps Nethelion is right, and their elders will never understand what it’s like to be half one race and half another. Caught in the middle by their very nature—and there are some, intentionally or not, who would tip the balance to one side for their own reasons. Until very recently, Rhuna had not allowed herself to think much about it. But by now the exhaustion, the weight of it has caught up with her.

“Grandmother,” she whispers. “Can we speak about it alone sometime?”

Dis falters, and reaches out to pat Rhuna’s hand. “Of course.”

Rhuna nods and clears her throat to cover the silence between them. Gadra has watched their exchange with a curious eye.

“But tell me of your home, Rhuna,” says Cana loudly, taking Rhuna’s arm and leading her a few steps away. “Erebor is so magnificent. What must it be like to grow up in such a place?”

Rhuna thinks she sees Cana give her the tiniest and most discreet of winks. She latches onto the change of subject, even though she isn’t sure how to respond.

“Well. Erebor is grand, I guess, but it’s easy to get used to it when you’ve been here your whole life. It’s sort of boring, really. I go to school, and I cast metal sometimes, and I spend the rest of the time with my brothers.”

“Yes.” Cana smiles. “A wealth of brothers you have.”

“They’re all right, I suppose,” says Rhuna. “But I always thought it would be nice to have a sister.”

At this, Cana takes a long look back at her mother. When she turns to Rhuna again, her smile dazzles. “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting around to updating this! I worked on a couple of side stories for a while, which was so fun, but it's nice to get back to this one. Thank you again to everyone who reads this 'verse. I'm sending you vibes of love and appreciation :) Please feel free to comment, it makes my day!
> 
> Sindarin:
> 
> Ionneg="my son"


	9. Eronel/Nethelion/Therin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it shouldn't have taken me a month to update, but I just could not with this chapter for the longest time. It's finally done, though, and I hope you enjoy. Comments are more than welcome, as always!
> 
> Also, I'm to the point in this 'verse where I really need to know more about Tolkien's work. I'm attempting to plan ahead but my head is spinning a little bit and I need help. So anyone, if you're willing to let me bounce ideas off you for this fic, please let me know! I would be forever grateful :)

Books and scrolls are not strictly allowed to be removed from the library. But Eronel can’t think of anyone who would actually attempt to reprimand him for it, so he sets off for the dining hall with a dusty volume under his arm. After weeks of scouring Erebor’s resources on his brother’s behalf, Eronel has finally stumbled upon something worth showing him.

His progress is much faster and easier now that he has the new leg, Bofur’s ingenuity at work. It is fashioned of steel, with a clever ball joint at the kneecap that absorbs pressure from his steps. Eronel cannot remember the last time he’d walked without pain; it almost feels like floating, and a wide smile comes to his face unbidden. He knows he is still slow, and he always will be, but this almost-normalcy is more than he had really hoped for.

Bofur had been taken aback—but pleased—by Eronel’s reaction. After testing the leg in a jerky but otherwise comfortable walk about the room, he’d clasped the older dwarf by the shoulders and thanked him so profusely that his father had had to pry his fingers off.

“Don’t mention it, laddie,” Bofur had said with his customary grin. “’Tis nothing.”

Perhaps Eronel should have been embarrassed, given his usual reticence, but sometimes it is just a relief to freely laugh. He has already tucked the joyful memory away alongside many others, another blessing to count.

It is still early for lunch, and the vast hall is mostly empty when he arrives with his prize from the library. This dining hall is for the court, not the public, and as such it is rarely filled at this hour. Therin is seated by himself at the far side, picking at a bowl of stew as he waits. Eronel plants himself down in the seat across from him, still marveling at the relative ease of the motion.

“I’ve found something interesting.”

Therin blinks up at him as he places the book down, open to a page near the beginning.

“Therin. Is this her? You said she was tall with long fair hair.”

Eronel knows the answer by the way his brother stares at the illustration. It is just a pencil sketch, but the artist seems to have done her great justice; the lady’s eyes seem to jump off the page and hook into the viewer. She stands before what looks to be a basin of water.   

“Galadriel,” he says, and Therin snaps his head up. The name is obviously familiar to them, but neither brother would have thought to connect it with Therin’s dream visitor. “As in, the lady of Lothlorien.”     

“This was in our library?” Therin asks, reaching to take a closer look.

“Well, I had to look through Ori’s things. He was the only one who would have had something like this.”

“This is her, Eronel.” Therin’s voice is tinged with awe, and perhaps fear. “This is the lady that talks to me.”

“She’s been alive since before the First Age,” Eronel points out.

Therin’s eyes go wide. “And…how many years is that?”

“Thousands.” Eronel shakes his head. It is difficult for him to even fathom a being that aged, who has seen so much. And now his little brother is acquainted with her, in the most unbelievable of ways.

Therin places his chin down on the table. “And I told her I was twenty-two. She must have _laughed_.”

“You don’t know that. I’ll bet she was impressed that you’re so young,” Eronel encourages, pleased to see Therin look up hopefully at him. “But…Therin?”

He raises his head and cocks it to the side, giving Eronel his attention.

“What is it like to see what you see? Really?”

Therin swallows. “Mostly my head hurts a lot,” he answers, visibly reluctant. “And I remember the dreams now. It’s still scary most of the time, but sometimes it’s good things.”

“Have you seen my future?” Eronel asks, half joking, half desperately curious. But Therin’s expression goes even more serious, if possible, and Eronel wishes he had not asked.

“She says I shouldn’t tell you,” he says quietly. “Any of you. Because I don’t know what’s—“

Therin hushes abruptly, and almost in the same moment Eronel sees a sandy-haired dwarf enter the hall. He is dressed in the customary red and black of his folk, and his face is crunched into its usual scowl.  

The Ironfists have been under the mountain for a month, almost exactly. In that time, Eronel thinks he has gained a fairly accurate impression of them. Gorsed, the eager mouthpiece. Gadra, the no-nonsense, efficient taskmaster. Cana, the rebellious daughter who gives her mother gray hair. But Fane, however, has kept himself so scarce that Eronel does not yet know what to make of him. He has always appeared as a silent shadow to his mother and uncle, trailing along after them with his mouth in a sour twist. Today, however, he is alone, and the sight of him without any of his kin is distinctly strange. The brothers watch as he glances around at the near-empty hall. Apparently satisfied with his appraisal, he begins sauntering toward their table.

“Eronel,” Therin whispers. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t want to.”

“I’m not sure we will have a choice,” Eronel murmurs, watching the dwarf in question as he draws nearer.

“Eronel,” hisses Therin, his voice high and verging on panicky. “I _really—“_

“Well met, princelings,” calls Fane, and Eronel realizes that he has never actually heard this dwarf speak before. “How rare for us to cross paths without any prying eyes on us.”

Fane’s voice is every bit as severe as his expression, and Eronel fights an urge to flinch back. Perhaps the strangeness of Therin’s reaction has influenced him, but the sound makes his skin crawl nonetheless.

“Well met.”Eronel replies with the politeness expected of him, but makes no further invitation for the dwarf to speak. He instinctively bristles as Fane turns his attention to Therin.

“Do you not speak, then?” he asks bluntly. Therin avoids his eyes, closing the book on Lady Galadriel’s picture and clutching it to his chest. Fane glances around again and leans down closer to them.

“Well.” A smile spreads very slowly across his face, like a wolfhound baring its teeth, and Eronel suddenly feels quite cornered. “This is tragic indeed, to see a mute and a cripple bearing the blood of Durin. How do the folk of Erebor stomach it, I wonder?”

It is as if a curtain has been drawn away from Fane’s face, and Eronel is chilled to the bone by what is revealed. The quiet, sullen demeanor had been only a thin cover for a deeper contempt; that much is clear. Fane is still grinning—gleeful, Eronel suspects, at the chance to finally have encountered them alone and unprotected. He is fiercely grateful for his elvish stillness; his frown is only slight as he looks back at Fane, keeping the strength of his dread deep within.

Nethelion always turns to bravado when all else fails. Eronel, however, finds that he prefers the bite of sarcasm.

“Inspired, really,” he deadpans without batting an eye. “No one has ever thought to call me a ‘cripple’ before. You must be the envy of your folk, with such cleverness.”

Fane’s cracked smile shrinks. “I might not have your _elvish_ way with words, but you don’t want to spar me, boy.”

Eronel almost laughs.

“You are the one who provoked _us,_ not the other way around,” he says. “You’ve been here a month, and you approach us only when there is no one here to witness it. Do you think to scare us because we are young? I have known few dwarves so cowardly.”

“In the Red Mountains I could have your braids for that insult.” Fane’s glower is firmly back in place as he gestures to a knife at his belt. “I’ve half a mind to try it now if you aren’t careful.”

“Then I sincerely hope your blade is sharper than your wit,” Eronel counters, keeping his voice smooth to avoid alarming Therin, whose eyes have gone still wider. “If you think you can threaten us without consequences you lack more sense than I thought. Please leave us in peace.”

“You don’t know what’s coming, elfling,” Fane snarls. “Just watch.”

He stalks back the way he’d come, and the brothers watch in silence until he is gone.

“I think,” says Eronel slowly, “that I see why you didn’t want to talk to him.”

Therin just nods, pale as a sheet, still clutching Lady Galadriel’s illustration close.

 

* * *

 

“Just _watch?_ He said this?”

Their father’s ire, when it comes, is almost amusing to Nethelion; it is at such stark odds with the laughing, jovial figure he knows best. Nethelion so rarely has cause to see this side of him that he is glad he’d chosen this night to come home for dinner. Even if the story Eronel has just told sets his teeth on edge and his blood simmering in his veins.

“He was ridiculous.” Eronel shrugs, spearing a leaf with his fork. “I probably shouldn’t have egged him on, but I couldn’t help it.”

“Eronel, he threatened you,” says their mother. “Surely you see that this is serious.”

“But it just doesn’t make any sense. Why me? Unless he thought to target me because of…” He gestures to his leg. “Perhaps he thinks me weak.”

“Little does _he_ know,” Rhuna pipes up. Next to her, Therin nods his agreement.

“Especially after you showed him his place,” Nethelion says lightly. “You are growing bold, brother.”  

Eronel smiles at this, no doubt remembering their days as school children. Absently, Nethelion runs his thumb over the tiny scar on his left front knuckle, a memento of the time his fist had connected with the teeth of a mouthy Iron Hills dwarf. Nethelion’s own boldness had been quick to develop, and had shown itself through many a brawl in the training yard.  

“I feared something like this,” their mother says, and Nethelion can practically see her hackles rise. She has been agitated of late, more guarded than usual ever since they’d heard of the necessity of the Ironfists’ extended stay.

“It probably meant nothing, Amad,” says Eronel, trying to soothe. “He is probably just another dwarf who hates elves and likes to run off at the mouth. Nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“’Probably’ is little comfort to me,” she replies, exchanging a glance with their father. Nethelion doesn’t miss the look, and he can see that Eronel doesn’t either. He thinks that if Rhuna and Therin weren’t present, the conversation might be very different.

Eventually, after several minutes of nothing but chewing and forks scraping, they get back to a semblance of normalcy. Rhuna cannot contain her excitement about _Mereth Nuin Giliath_ the next day, and the rest of them latch eagerly onto the happier topic. Nethelion stays until the lanterns burn low, and bids them all goodbye a little reluctantly. Independence comes with a tradeoff, he is learning, and at times he misses the other side of it more than he’d anticipated.

He permits his mother to kiss his brow before he goes.

“Be safe, _ionneg,”_ she says earnestly, clutching his shoulders tight.

“I will.” Nethelion smiles. “ _Av-‘osto,_ Amad. Try not to worry.”  

Tauriel smiles back at him, patting his cheek one more time before he leaves. Shutting the door on his childhood home, he makes his way down the corridors that lead to the barracks. He knows which pathways are quietest, and takes them in an effort to tamp down the cacophony of voices that meet his elvish ears. As he draws near to a fork in the path, however, one voice stands out from around the corner.  

“Is there ever a time when you think before you speak?” The voice is deep, feminine, and sharply accented; Gadra is incensed about something, and Nethelion cannot believe his luck. Silently, sleek as a cat, he settles against the wall and listens.

“I have been _thinking_ since we got here. I’m tired of thinking, Amad, I want to act!” 

“You _want,”_ Gadra’s voice mocks. “You _want._ What have I been trying to teach you all this time? If you are going to be greedy you must have patience. I’ve instructed you and your sister to make nice with the royals, to gain their trust. A simple thing, or so I thought. She is doing so admirably, and look at you.”

“They’re _elves,_ Amad,” Fane (for the voice must belong to him) protests, and Nethelion cannot hold back a quiet snort.

“I don’t care if they are goblins,” says Gadra sharply. In that instant all of Nethelion’s previous impressions of Gadra—polite, open, curious—are shattered by the venom in her tone.

“We need this alliance more than you know,” she goes on, “and your schoolyard nonsense does not help us take what we need. Get your temper under control and do it now.”

“But you’ve already given the King—“

“Hush! Your mouth outruns your mind!” Gadra is incensed. “I’ve told you what you are to do. If that is more than you can manage, then stay away from them. I will lock you in your rooms like a dwarfling if I must. But I will not let your childishness jeopardize this position.”

Gadra strides out. Nethelion remains motionless in the shadow, watching her leave. After she is out of sight, Fane finally leaves the room as well. There is no one else in the corridor but the two of them, and Nethelion smiles—his luck keeps getting better.

“Goblins, huh?” he quips from the shadows, and Fane whirls at him. He is a physically imposing dwarf, taller than some and with thick, broad shoulders. But Nethelion works his height advantage to its fullest, staring down at the dwarf from his high vantage point.

“I don’t know what you think you heard,” Fane blusters, “but—“

“I heard enough.” Enough to know that Eronel had been wrong before. This is more than one arrogant dwarf’s blustering; there is something sinister at work here. Nethelion tries desperately not to think of Cana, and how he has come to expect her presence whenever he trains. He used to be pleased that she would choose to seek him out, to smile at him and play little games that he barely knows how to play. But now her every word, every long glance, is laced with this poison.

“What did you mean when you mentioned the King?” he snaps, wrenching his thoughts back. “What are the four of you really doing here?”  

“There’s nothing you can do now,” says Fane, seemingly unable to resist goading him. “Your father is weak, and your uncle even weaker. And as to what we’re doing here…maybe we are tired of seeing your clan of half-breeds prosper while we waste away.”

The word _half-breed_ brings red to Nethelion’s vision like nothing else can. He grips Fane by the front of his tunic and leans down level with his eyes.

“Let’s get one thing settled between us right now. Do whatever you want to me, but if you hurt them, I swear by Mahal that you will pay.”

He shoves Fane back and strides away toward the barracks, before he can be tempted to do more. _Your actions have consequences that reach farther than most,_ his mother had often told him as a child when he would come home bloody. Tauriel, while free to voice her convictions at home, was far more cautious with her words and actions in public. It was only as he’d grown older that Nethelion had begun to understand exactly why. It was for the same reason he’d stopped throwing punches any time some dignitary’s offspring said a word out of line. No matter how well-deserved those blows might have been, his fighting had always made it that much harder for the rest of them. There is no shame amongst dwarves in solving problems with blows first and words later. But Nethelion and his siblings are held to a different standard. Any show of violence, any little thing that could be perceived as threatening, and certain folk under the mountain would be crying _sorcery_ and _elf-witch._ It is a strange balance they walk.

Nethelion will not make his family bigger targets now, especially now that he knows they might already be in danger. He continues down the corridor with the distinct feeling that he is in over his head.

 

* * *

 

 

_"Why_ _didn’t you ever tell me your name?”_

_The lady—Galadriel, Therin now knows—smiles down at him._

_“What troubles you tonight, Aule’s child?” She skirts his question entirely, and Therin thinks that he should have expected it. Galadriel never gives a direct answer; she is no dwarf._

_“I’m worried about Uncle,” he says. “And Amad, Nethelion…everyone, really. I want to say something, but I’m not sure it would help.”_

_There is no need to explain why; he has told Galadriel before of the danger he senses. The problem is that the dreams rarely offer specifics. All he gets are fleeting images that never seem to form a sensible whole. What good would it do to tell Nethelion that he’d seen him with an arrow protruding from his side? Or to tell Rhuna to look over her shoulder, because he’d dreamed of Fane peering out at her from the shadows?_

_“I have told you before that speaking of the visions is fraught with peril,” says the Lady. "The future is ever changing. Would you burden them with such fear if it is unfounded?”_

_“But it hurts to keep it in,” Therin replies, feeling sick. “It hurts.”_

_She leans down to stroke his hair._

_“I am sorry, little watcher. I forget how young you are. The choice is yours, of course. You may speak or not; either way there are consequences.” She looks away, over his head. “The long sight brings little certainty, I’m afraid.”_

_“I haven’t even told my mother and father that I see you. That I see…these things.” He swallows. “I’m scared of what they’ll say.”_

_She grins at this, showing brilliant white teeth._

_“They will say that you are their son, and you are extraordinary.”_

_“You’re sure? You saw it?”_

_The edges of the Lady’s courtyard go fuzzy, and Therin knows that he will wake soon._

_“I do not have to possess magic to know a parent’s love for their child,” says Galadriel gently as her voice grows softer and more distant. “Whatever it is you fear, little watcher, it need not be this.”_  


	10. Tauriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be kind of an introspective chapter (and kind of long, jeez), and yet still fluffy :) Hope y'all enjoy this stargazing interlude! Feedback is greatly appreciated as always. 
> 
> Also, after receiving some questions about how things connect in this 'verse, I changed the packaging on this series. Now everything that's part of Under the Mountain-'verse will be grouped together. And as I write more one-shots (baby fic, anyone?), I'll slot them in where they go chronologically. Hopefully that lessens confusion :)
> 
> Sindarin:  
> No veren="be joyous"

The Mirkwood looms large on the horizon, a dark wall in the distance past Dale. In her mind’s eye, Tauriel can see the folk of Thranduil’s court cavorting in the palace, and the guard stealing away from their posts and into the trees. Even after all these years away, the forest still throbs in her heart. But there is something to be said for the openness of the mountainside, and the unimpeded view of the sky.

More than half a century has passed since Smaug’s demise, and the plain between Erebor and Dale is not the desolation it had once been. Out past the rocks at the foot of the mountain, the grass springs up green and soft. This is where the family goes for their starlit vigil on _Mereth Nuin Giliath,_ this year like every other before. Erebor rises strong behind them, shielding them from anything that might be lurking farther across the plain.

The starlight has a hum, a voice, that none but the Eldar can perceive. _Mereth Nuin Giliath_ is the night that voice is clearest. It is a night of merriment for wood elves, tempered with as much reverence as they can typically muster.

When she’d come to the mountain, Tauriel had thought _Mereth Nuin Giliath_ a thing of her past. But Kili would have none of that.

“I fell in love with you as I watched you speak of the stars,” he’d said as they had stargazed alone, that first time. “How could I keep this from you? I’m just sorry it isn’t what you’re used to.”

“Traditions can be remade,” had been her easy reply, knowing that there were some among her kind who would call her blasphemous. But she finds increasingly that she cares little for the opinions of elves who thought to disown her. Her life is something else entirely, now. And her family has indeed remade the Feast of Starlight into something entirely their own, all the more sacred for its exclusivity. It is not the treetop fantasy of her childhood, nor the wine-soaked revelry of Thranduil’s court. But Tauriel cherishes what they have created. For them, _Mereth Nuin Giliath_ is the one night a year they might set aside everything royal and simply be free, if only until dawn.

Delight swells in Tauriel’s chest to see her brood leading the way to their feasting place, a flat patch of ground where the river runs deep and slow. Nethelion walks alongside Eronel as he picks his way forward, making no move to quicken his step. Rhuna has rushed ahead of them all, hefting a basket under her arm. Kili holds an identical basket in one hand, and he places the other against the small of Tauriel’s back as they follow their children.

The sharp, peculiar bark of a fox rings out. Therin races forward at the sound, beaming, and Tauriel smiles to see him so lighthearted. She has admittedly little experience with children other than her own, but she has known no other child so grave as her youngest. He moves with heavy steps, and there are times when his eyes seem fathomless. Not so long ago, he had walked this trail with one chubby hand in Tauriel’s own, the other in Kili’s. All four of their children had done so at one time. Each year they grow; each year they run farther ahead.  

She and Kili share a glance. Tauriel wonders if his thoughts follow a similar path as they draw level to where the four are seated in a square formation. Nethelion has the little fox in his lap and Therin frets beside him.

“You have to scratch her ears like this,” he instructs his eldest brother. “On the sides. She likes that better.”

“I think I know how to pet an animal,” says Nethelion, only to have the fox slip from his grasp and snuffle at Therin’s feet.

“Your brother knows best when it comes to creatures,” says Kili, reaching to muss Therin’s hair as Rhuna and Eronel laugh.

“Adad, can I really not bring her inside?”

“I’m afraid not, son.” Kili flops himself down to place his own basket next to Rhuna’s. “She’s meant to be outdoors, where she can hunt and run through the trees. She wouldn’t be happy underground.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Tauriel, teasing. “Perhaps you underestimate a wood creature’s ability to thrive under the mountain.”

Kili looks at her fondly even as he tries to ignore the way Therin’s face has suddenly lit up.

“See? Amad says it’s all right,” he presses, sensing his opening and charging through it.  

“Love, that isn’t exactly—“

“Food!” Nethelion demands, looking every bit the petulant prince as he bangs his fist on the ground. “What did you swipe?”

“Calm down. You’ll see in a moment,” says Kili as he and Rhuna open their baskets, piled with choice items from Bombur’s massive kitchen. Tauriel laughs as her sons waste no time digging in. There is quiet for a while as the sun finishes its descent behind the mountain; they all look up at the gray sky, anticipating the coming of the stars.

“Is this all the honeycomb you got?” asks Eronel, reaching for another and finding himself empty-handed.

“We would have gotten more. But Bombur caught us,” Rhuna admits sheepishly.

“That makes what, five years in a row?” Nethelion says. “Remind me why we send the two worst spies to carry out a secret mission.”

“Because we pick the best food,” Rhuna says decisively, waving a spare rib to emphasize her point. Kili, meanwhile, reaches over to take the bottle of mead out of Nethelion’s hand for a spiteful swig.

“Perhaps Rhuna and I should take it all back,” he says haughtily.

“Or just eat it ourselves,” she snickers. Kili tugs at a lock of her hair and they exchange a grin. Looking on, Tauriel feels regret twist in her stomach. It has been too long since she and Rhuna have interacted with such ease.

But tonight is a night to suspend worry, she reminds herself. The dusk deepens into night as they watch, and finally, _finally,_ the stars wink into view. Before long they cover the sky like a fine white mist, vibrant with activity and song. Tauriel hums under her breath; she has never been a good singer, but she cannot stay silent with the voice of the starlight in her mind.

 _You are alive, forest daughter,_ they call. _You are alive._

“You can hear them now?” Kili squints up at the night sky. It is strange to think that he does not see what she does; to him, the stars are just stars. To him there is no movement, no music to it. At first Tauriel had been sad to realize this. But Kili had been quick to reassure her that he feels no loss.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “They call to us.”

“The white light of forever,” breathes Eronel, almost to himself. Tauriel touches his shoulder as he stretches to lie on his back, settling in. One by one, the other three grow enraptured as well; they wander off in their separate directions, but always within sight. It is said that the stars have a particular message to each listener on _Mereth Nuin Giliath._ She wonders what it is her children think about, what dreams are sparked by the starlight. But it is one thing she will not ask.

Once the four have gone to their musing, Kili offers a hand to her. Tauriel smiles as she takes it, and they make their way to their own little circle of trees. Here they can lie in the grass and see the sky through the branches and clinging foliage. The autumn air is not yet sharp enough to chill Kili’s hardy dwarvish skin, so they sink to lie flat on the cold ground. Fallen leaves serve as a bit of cushion as they settle; Tauriel’s attention remains fixed on the heavens, while Kili’s quickly strays to more earthy things. It is barely a moment before she feels the press of him at her side, nuzzling her shoulder, hooking his thigh around hers.

Tauriel makes no effort to hide her grin.

He slides his hand up her body to her breast, giving it a gentle squeeze as he covers her neck with warm, open-mouthed kisses. The drag of his tongue awakens a pleasant frisson beneath her skin; she fights to keep her laugh discreet, lest it echo across the plain. In return she runs her fingers through his hair, the pads of her fingers teasing his scalp and the back of his neck. They touch each other quietly, lazily, letting their heat simmer as the stars wink down at them.  

"Don't make me too comfortable, or I'll never last the night," he murmurs into her cheek. It must be later than she’d realized, for Tauriel hears in his voice that he is floating in the place between sleep and waking.

She smiles and turns so that she can brush his lips with her own. "Be at rest, _a’maelamin._ I know you would rather be sleeping than watching the stars."

"But I like watching you watch them."

"And I like watching you sleep. So either way we are both pleased."

Kili smiles and rests his forehead against her temple, breathing tender Khuzdul into her ear between kisses until his eyes fall closed again. She resumes massaging his scalp and he crowds ever closer to her side. Before long he falls into a half-doze on her shoulder, and Tauriel lets his peace settle into her bones as he grows heavy against her.

She watches the ethereal shimmer above, just as enthralled now as she has been over the centuries she has lived. Time fades from her awareness again as she is swathed in pure light, the gentle hum ringing in her ears.

_All will come clear, forest daughter. In the starlight all will come clear._

Perhaps it should lessen the experience to have a solid, earthbound dwarf tucked under her chin, oblivious, with his hand still splayed across her breast. But Kili is a welcome anchor, holding her fast as her mind wanders. Even in sleep he makes his presence felt, with the occasional sigh, fidget, or light rumbling snore. She smiles at each, treasuring his closeness as the light flashes above.

Tauriel hears the rustling of the grass before her husband does, and knows at once who the footfalls belong to. Eventually the intruder grows loud enough that Kili twitches awake, casting about for the source of the sound.

"Oh, hello, _ghivashel,"_ he says, calming when he sees their daughter. Rhuna grins back at him before turning to Tauriel.

"Can we...um...?" she asks, and Tauriel is on her feet so fast she nearly knocks Kili onto his back.

“Of course,” she replies, heart thumping in her chest. Rhuna smiles tightly, holding her arms stiffly at her sides as they walk away.

They are silent for a long while. Rhuna keeps opening her mouth and closing it again, and Tauriel cannot seem to push past the closed-up feeling in her throat. She almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation; she has known Rhuna since her first moment of existence, and yet she cannot think of a single word to say. Of course it would be this child that would baffle her most.

In the end it is Rhuna who speaks first.

"Do I disappoint you, Amad?"

Tauriel stops and turns to her daughter, stunned.

"What would ever make you think that?"

"Because—look at you!” Rhuna gestures up and down Tauriel’s body. “You’re just so…you’ve done so much that I could never do. I’ll never be as fast or strong or brave. And at the feast you were so upset about the way I was dressed, so I thought…” She shrugs and looks up. “I just thought perhaps you might like it better if I was more like you.”

“Oh, Rhuna,” Tauriel sighs. “You thought I was angry with you?”

She nods, and some of Tauriel’s confusion clears.

“I was…surprised, and suspicious, to see you so adorned. I had not known you to be interested in such things.” She bites back the remarks about Dis that fly to the tip of her tongue and lets Rhuna continue.

“It’s just…it is starting to feel strange, presenting myself without any gems. It makes me feel like a dwarfling, Amad. And then Grandmother gave me those things and it just felt like the right time. I just wanted to show everyone I’m not a child! I wanted to feel like I’m not so…”

She trails off, raising her face to the sky as if hoping the stars will supply her with the words she needs. Tauriel watches as she is illuminated, the starlight adding a silver glow to the gold of her hair. She has left it loose tonight, falling in thick waves down her back. There is a silver bead fastened in the thick beard beneath her chin, with tiny, delicate stars etched into the cool metal. It is Rhuna’s own work, one of her first efforts, and she wears it every year on this night. Touched by the glow, Rhuna is otherworldly. Not for the first time, Tauriel thinks, _Who are you, and how did you come to be mine?_  

“The ways of dwarrowdam are strange to me, still,” Tauriel admits, looking forward as they begin walking again. “I was not born of stone, and gems hold no significance for me. But I have to remember that you are of Erebor, my love, and that none of it is strange to you. And I would not have that any other way. Do not ever worry that I disapprove. I only wanted to be sure you were not being swayed to do something you did not want.”

Tauriel remembers the sight of her daughter entering the hall at Dis’ side, glittering and weighted down by jewels. Her ears covered in metal. There had been a pang, indeed, at seeing her this way; Tauriel had felt as if she was looking upon a stranger. She had understood immediately that the attire was more than just clothing. Such a complete transformation could not happen by accident; there had been a message in it.

In the moment, she had been quite sure what that message was. With Dis’ touch blatantly obvious, it had felt like a threat. But Tauriel had not considered that Rhuna might simply have wanted to feel at home among her own folk.

“I wanted to do it,” Rhuna says, confirming things further. “It felt good to get dressed up, and see myself that way. And I know you probably think it’s stupid and vain, but—“

“Rhuna.” Tauriel places her hands on either side of her daughter’s face. “I will never think you stupid or vain, ever. Please know that. If I had wanted my children to be like any other wood elf, I certainly would never have chosen a dwarf for their father.”

Rhuna smiles at this, a little of her usual impishness creeping back. Warmed, Tauriel reaches to loop her arm through her daughter’s as they walk. Their silence is easier this time.

"You were born in the afternoon, when the midsummer sun was high,” she muses after a while. “You were so beautiful, my love." She smiles. "And I was terrified."

"You were?” Rhuna is incredulous. “Why?"

"Because I knew nothing at all about little girls. Your brothers were happy enough with wooden swords in their hands, and that was all familiar to me. I wasn’t sure I was fit to be a girl’s mother.”

Rhuna’s mouth is a bit agape; the expression is so utterly _Kili_ that Tauriel might have laughed.

“Is it so shocking to you that I might be afraid of things?”

“A little. You’re never afraid.”

“I wish that were the truth, my love,” Tauriel sighs. “You and your brothers frighten me more than I could have imagined. But never doubt that I am proud of you, _iellig_. I am proud of you no matter what.”

“Amad.” Rhuna’s voice breaks a little, and she seems on the edge of tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you sooner. I’m sorry I’ve been so—“

“Shh.” Tauriel reaches out to hug her, hard enough to steal a moment’s breath. “It was a misunderstanding. But next time we will talk, yes?”

“Yes.” Rhuna stretches on tiptoe to press her forehead against Tauriel’s own.  

“I should let you get back to Adad,” she says after a time. “He is likely lonely.”

“He is likely asleep,” Tauriel says with a smirk, and Rhuna laughs. “But I will see. Enjoy your stargazing, my love.”

“And you, Amad. _No veren._ ” She reaches out for another swift hug, and to Tauriel it feels like athelas placed over a wound. She smiles in response, and turns back to her circle of trees as Rhuna walks away.

Kili is awake when she returns to him, but only just.

"All's well?" he asks on a yawn, turning a bleary gaze on her.

As an answer, she moves to lie behind him, stretching her arm out to pillow his head as she pulls him against her chest. She kisses his ear, breathing in the earthy smell of his hair, and twines their legs together. Her embrace is fierce and he melts into it, murmuring sleepy nonsense as his breathing slows again.

"All is well," she whispers, echoed in the song of the stars.


	11. Nethelion/Kili

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who are sticking with me :) This was a tough chapter to write (like REALLY tough, hence the long time between updates), and it's going to start taking us into the meat of the story. On a related note, be sure watch the tags. I'll be updating them as I go.
> 
> A huge special heartfelt shout-out to Dee for being there while I hyperventilated about this chapter. You da best :)
> 
> I often post sneak peeks on my Tumblr (and sometimes whine about writing) if any of y'all are into that. I go by magnoliamagic over there and I love to talk!

“I wonder if your mother would teach me how to do that,” Arval muses, gesturing over from their outpost to the place where Tauriel is posted with Master Dwalin. Nethelion follows his friend’s arm to see his mother stretch her bow behind her head and angle it blindly toward a distant point across the plain. She doesn’t fire her arrow, but there is no doubt that she could hit any target she wished, from even the most absurd angle. Arval reaches his arms around his own head to imitate her, but he can’t manage anything resembling grace in the movement. Nethelion snorts.

“Tauriel would teach you anything you wanted to know, if your arms were long enough to do it properly.”

“If you weren’t a prince I would have an arrow in your kneecap for that,” Arval grumbles, setting his bow back down. They’ve been idling about for their entire watch, finding increasingly asinine ways to pass the time. The plain is quiet today, as it always is. Sometimes Nethelion isn’t sure he likes the life of a soldier during peace time. Even while on duty, there is too much quiet space to think.

He’s had more than enough to think about ever since his encounter with Fane the week before. It has all been hanging over his head; he has gone over and over the conversation in his mind, struggling to remember every detail. The threat in Fane’s eyes had been clear, but his words vague. He had spoken of a plot, one that involves revenge for long-held ills between their respective clans. Nethelion is fuzzy on the history of it all, but he doesn’t need a history lesson to understand the contempt he’d seen from Fane that night.

Of course, the fact that there is elven blood in the line of Durin does not exactly do much to ease tension. That alone would be enough to incite some dwarves to rage.

Fili will sign the treaty tomorrow, declaring the stalemate between the Ironfist and Durin’s Folk clans officially ended. The thought makes Nethelion feel ill, and more than a little useless.

“I can hear you thinking,” Arval grunts, looking over at him. “About the Ironfists again?”

Nethelion nods. “There must be something I can do. If it had just been Fane blustering at me, I wouldn’t be so worried. But his mother was worse—she was serious. She was calculated. I think they are a real danger, but I didn’t actually hear much. Everything was…cryptic.”

“Not the dwarven way,” comes Arval’s deadpan reply. “Unless things are even more different in the East than we think.”  

Nethelion just sighs.

“Don’t you think your father would know what to do?” Arval raises a pointed eyebrow and Nethelion huffs, not wanting to see it. The two of them have trained together from childhood, long enough to form a bond of trust that can only be shared by comrades in arms. Arval is the only one among their peers that is willing to tell Nethelion things he does not wish to hear. Such frankness is the reason Nethelion trusts Arval with his life. But it is more than a little annoying at times.

“I cannot just run to my parents at every turn. They have enough to think about.”

“What about your uncle? Or Eronel, even?” Arval persists. “He’s smart, maybe he would—“

“I _know_ he is smart. Did you ever think that I might be smart, too?” Nethelion is only half-joking. Arval’s face doesn’t so much as twitch.  

“If you were, you would have gone to someone besides me for help.”

“Eronel is supposed to come to me when he needs help. Not the other way around,” Nethelion says firmly, squaring his shoulders. “I can figure out what to do on my own.”

“This is not just your problem, though.” Arval rubs a hand across his freckled face, exasperated. “It’s your whole family’s problem. It could become everyone’s problem if something isn’t done. You do not know—“

“Shh.” He cuts Arval off with a hand when he hears footsteps approaching behind them. The cadence is painfully familiar, and does nothing to dispel Nethelion’s dread. Cana has developed an uncanny sense of his whereabouts at any given time; Nethelion suspects that his sister, romantic that she is, might be a co-conspirator.

His efforts not to think of her have been absurdly unsuccessful. Gadra’s words are a near-constant echo in his mind. _Your job was to make nice with them, gain their trust._ Nethelion knows it is his own fault that he feels like this, as if his chest has been smashed in with a warhammer. Cana had promised him nothing; she had only played with him. It is Nethelion himself who had foolishly hoped for more.

He braces himself when he feels her squeeze the knot at the back of his head, tugging gently. He tries to suppress his startled jump, but he can still practically feel Cana’s smirk boring into his back. Nethelion swallows, taking a moment to marshal himself before turning around to look at her.

Generally, dwarves do not make a habit of touching one another’s hair. It is a familiar gesture, reserved for family and those in close, intimate circles. But Cana has never seemed to care much for boundaries. A week ago, Nethelion might have smiled at the possibilities of what she’d meant by such a gesture. He might have had vague imaginings of what Cana’s hair might feel like around his own fingers, slipping over his palms.

Now, he flinches away.

“We are on duty, in case you failed to notice,” he snaps, stretching his neck down to stare into her eyes. “Can you wait?”

Cana raises her eyebrows. She has copper beads in her hair today in addition to the gold; they clink together as the breeze catches her braids.

“On duty, you say?” she says lightly, a smile arching onto her face. “What kind of guard doesn’t realize he is being approached from behind?”

“I heard you coming. You walk like a dwarf.”

Even after his curt response, her smile never dims. Nethelion hates her for it, just a little.

“You know that the signing of the treaty is tomorrow?”

He gives her a look. “I have heard it mentioned, yes.”

“Exciting times for our clans.” She places herself between the two of them; the nod she gives Arval is cursory as she leans close to Nethelion’s side. Arval, who has taken to raising his eyebrows and winking a lot whenever Cana shows up, just shifts his gaze to the side this time.

Her smile is as charming as ever, her attention focused solely upon him, and Nethelion hates that he still feels the familiar swoop of anticipation that her regard brings. What is wrong with him? Cana is the enemy now. And yet he finds himself glancing down into the gold-flecked eyes that have followed him everywhere since she’d arrived, finding them so lovely that he wants to vomit. A glutton for punishment, his uncle Thorin might say.

He turns back to the plain and lets a few minutes pass without responding. Cana finally begins to furrow her brow in confusion.

“Nethelion?”

“Leave me alone,” he snarls. He hasn’t ever heard Cana say his name before. It sounds nice coming from her and it is too much to bear. “I need to concentrate.”

“On what? There isn’t any threat out there.”

“I am sure you would love for us to have that impression.” he snarls. “I’m sure you and your family are counting on it.”

Immediately, Nethelion curses himself for speaking. Eronel is right; he has no subtlety even on his best days. Now, feeling stupid and betrayed for no reason at all, he finds that his command of his words slips even further. Cana’s eyes widen and she opens her mouth to speak, but Nethelion stops her.

“Go, Cana,” he sighs. “I can’t—I don’t want you here. Please.”

A moment passes, and Nethelion wonders if Cana is at all bothered by the new ice between them.

“Fine,” Cana says at length, her voice hard. “But I will see you at the signing?”

“It is a diplomatic milestone, I have to be there. I am in line for the throne, remember?”

“Meet me after.” She leans forward and tugs at his elbow, pulling him closer to her level. “There is something you should know, and I should be the one to tell you.”

He considers her for a long moment before giving a curt nod. Just the thought of being alone with her makes his insides cold with dread, but he tries to put that aside and think as Eronel might; calm and rational. Anything Cana might divulge could be used against her and her scheming relatives; he can endure a few minutes of humiliation for that. Cana returns his nod and leaves without a second glance. Nethelion can hear the clinking of her beads even after she is gone.

“I thought you liked her.”

Nethelion jumps; he had forgotten Arval was there.

“I—“ He shakes his head. “Listen. Are you on duty tomorrow?”

Arval gives a slow nod.

“After the signing I need you to stay as close to the throne room as you can. And keep your eyes open.”

* * *

 

Fili adjusts his crown for roughly the fiftieth time, making sure it is perfectly centered atop his head. In the back of his mind, Kili knows that he should be focused more on the meeting at hand than his brother’s mannerisms, but he cannot help but watch. He isn’t used to seeing Fili so attentive to his adornments. Usually the crown is nothing more than a necessity of his station; an identifier, but rarely a source of real pride. But today Kili can tell it has just been polished, the mithril inlays gleaming bright against sharp-edged gold.

Kili tries to tell himself that it means nothing. But suspicion is as natural to dwarves as their beards, and Fili has been so distant of late that they might as well be passing acquaintances rather than brothers. After living with so many elves, Kili has picked up the habit of noting even what might seem insignificant. So, he notes the meticulous way Fili positions his crown. He also notes the fact that Fili has called them to the dark, cavernous throne room instead of their usual council chamber. They are having a very routine budget meeting; there is no reason to have called Mir, their chief accountant, all the way down to the most ceremonial place under the mountain. Kili feels intimidated and stiff here, squinting in the strange light and repeatedly failing to catch Fili’s eye.

He takes note of that, too.

Mir looks very small as she strides into the room and crosses the long bridge to Fili’s throne. Her white hair cuts through some of the gloom; Kili watches as it bobs toward them, staying perfectly in the center of the bridge to avoid the sharp drops on either side. Wisely, she says nothing about the change of venue for their meeting, and they begin the process of going over the kingdom’s allotment of funds with a fine-toothed comb. Kili gives everything a cursory once-over; while it is important for him to know the state of Erebor’s coffers, Fili is the one who must make any final decisions. With his attention so divided, he immediately notices Thorin slip into the chamber, accompanied by Dis. They do not approach the throne, letting the bridge stretch before them as they stand at the far end of the space.

Time passes and Fili remains fully engrossed in the documents Mir has brought, so Kili takes it upon himself to go and speak to their mother and uncle.

“You changed your mind about not taking part in governing affairs, then?” Kili asks under his breath.

“I haven’t done any such thing.” Thorin’s voice sounds even more like a growl when he whispers. “And I am not taking part. I simply wished to observe.”

“You wished to observe a budget meeting. Well, I hope you are finding it as fascinating as the rest of us.”

Dis twitches her lips. Thorin, however, does not smile at Kili’s joke. Instead he turns to look directly at Fili.

“I am finding plenty to hold my attention.”

Kili lets the smile slide from his face. He almost wishes Thorin had said nothing; now that another person has acknowledged how different Fili seems, Kili can no longer tell himself that he is imagining things.

Eventually he goes back and rejoins the discussion, looking down to where Mir is pointing.

“—and it looks like there is enough to finally repair the roadway to the upper levels, and the crumbling beams in the west mine—“

“Delay all of that,” Fili interrupts, “and leave the gold in the coffers.”

Mir glances up; with her hooked nose, high cheekbones, and hair pulled tightly back atop her head, the movement puts Kili in mind of a curious bird.

“But sire,” she says cautiously, “yesterday you said—“

“I have changed my mind. The beams and the roads will keep for now, and I cannot keep draining our stores to cover these endless expenses.”

“Are you not always saying that gold is useless until it is spent? I think this is worth another look, brother,” says Kili loudly, staring at Fili with wide eyes. Fili’s own eyes are red, tired, and frantic in a way that chills Kili’s blood. “You are dismissed for the day, Mir. We will speak of this at another time.”

Mir looks back and forth from Kili to Fili.

“Go,” says Fili, waving a hand. “Evidently I need to have words with my brother now, anyway.”

“Yes, my lord.” Mir practically sprints from the room, pausing just long enough to bow to each of them on her way out. Kili can hardly blame her. When Fili turns to look at him, Kili wishes for a moment that he could take his own leave.

“Last I checked, _I_ was King Under the Mountain,” he says, eyes hard and voice snappish. “I cannot do my job with you undermining my authority.”

There is an edge to his voice that curls Kili’s stomach. Across the chamber, Thorin and Dis go perfectly still.

“And I am your brother.” Kili wonders when interacting with Fili had started to feel so treacherous, like trying to sneak past a goblin or a troll. “You have covered my back in every battle we’ve ever fought together, and I am doing the same for you now. Fili, your choices lately, they have been so…strange. Has something happened?”

“What can you possibly mean by ‘strange’?”

“Well, to start, you just turned away a chance to use the kingdom’s gold for the good of the entire mountain. It isn’t like you to store up gold when it could be put to work.”

“Forgive me for trying to keep our coffers as full as they should be,” he says, twisting his golden ring around his finger. “Erebor must have gold to prosper. We must begin hoarding more away.”

_“Hoarding?_ Like a dragon, perhaps?”

“Of course not, Kili, you know that isn’t what I mean.”

“All right, fine,” Kili huffs, anger rising in him like a sudden cloud. “Clearly your sense has entirely left you. But try to answer me this. Why are you more willing to meet the needs of another clan than those of your own people? Just so that you can be remembered as the one who united the clans?”

“This again.” Fili rolls his eyes, and Kili feels the sting of that mocking expression even through his blinding frustration. They are acting like children, fighting like children—and as the elder brother, Fili had usually been the one to win their dwarfling fights.

“Prestige is all well and good, my son, but you must not let it cost you dearly,” Dis puts in from across the room, her voice carrying clearly. This time, Kili is glad of her inability to stay out of an argument. “Your first allegiance must be to your own clan.”

“Durin’s Folk will benefit from having a ruler of influence,” Fili says slowly, as if they are all stupid, “and an ally to the east will only widen my reach. Must I explain myself to you over and over again?”

“Until you find an adequate explanation,” Kili mutters under his breath, and Fili whirls on him.

“Remember your place, brother,” he declares, gripping the arm of his throne. “I am King Under the Mountain, and you are here only because I allow you to be.”

The words crash down between them; Fili’s eyes widen and he looks down at himself as if in surprise. But it cannot be taken back. Kili takes a step backward, widening the space between them still further.

“This is pure greed and power-grabbing, Fili. I don’t understand where it is coming from, but you sound completely senseless and you need me to tell you so. You may wear the crown, but you do not lead this kingdom alone.”

Fili doesn’t reply. He just turns and strides out of the throne room, leaving silence behind him.

“What in Mahal’s name…” Dis starts to speak, but cannot seem to find words to finish her thought. Kili shares her difficulty. He walks over to her and Thorin in silence, his mind whirling.

“In all his years as king, he has never thrown it in my face that way. Never once.”

“Perhaps it was not Fili at all,” Thorin suggests, still looking at the throne Fili has just vacated.

“What do you mean?”

“It is difficult to say.” He twists both hands in his silver-flecked hair, staring up at the distant ceiling for a moment. “But I am reminded of when we first returned to the mountain, and the poisoned gold called to me. I am sure you remember that time very well, Kili.”

Kili nods, lowering his eyes.

“Mistrustful of allies, hoarding gold in the coffers—“

“You think Fili suffers from dragon sickness?” Dis interrupts brusquely. “How is that possible when Smaug has been gone so long?”

“Perhaps not dragon sickness exactly,” says Thorin. “But the line of Durin has always been weak for wealth. Wealth and power.”

“Not Fili,” Kili insists. Defending his brother is a knee-jerk reaction after all these years. “He is stronger than any of that.”

“Believe me, I mean no insult to Fili.” Thorin squeezes Kili’s shoulder, as gentle as Kili has ever seen him. “I am simply telling you what I see.”

The mood is somber as they depart, each of them lost to their own thoughts. Kili wants nothing more than a hot supper, and perhaps a stiff drink with it. As he rounds the last corridor toward home, though, he stumbles upon a distressed-looking dwarfling.

“Therin?”

He jumps, glancing up with round eyes.

“Oh. Hello, Adad.” Therin quickly gives him a smile that is the picture of innocence. But Kili has seen that expression far too many times—and even employed it himself on countless occasions—to be fooled.

“What are you doing out here, son?”

“Looking for something.”

“Anything in particular?” Kili raises an eyebrow as Therin’s angelic smile freezes.

“Well,” he says, swallowing hard, “remember when you told me not to let Azbad into the mountain?”

Kili sighs. Really, he ought to have known.

“And now we have a fox on the loose.”

“I’ve been looking for her everywhere,” Therin said with a frown. “I brought her with me to lessons today, and she came to the library when I met Eronel there. And then I was going to bring her back home, but she was gone. She could be anywhere, Adad.”

“We’ll find her. She can probably smell her way home, so let’s head that way.”

They hunt for a while, Therin calling out for his companion every now and then. Kili cannot pretend to be as invested in the search, which doesn’t escape Therin’s notice.

“You look sad, Adad,” he observes.

“I am a little sad, son. It’s been a long day.”

“Because Uncle is sick,” Therin says without a trace of question in his tone.

Kili blinks down at him. “What makes you say that?”

But Therin isn’t listening. He has stopped short, clutching at Kili’s belt. He follows his son’s eyes to a smooth pillar, and a bushy red tail sticking out from behind it.

“Azbad?” Therin whispers, but the tail remains limp and still.

They walk over, Kili angling himself in front of Therin out of long parental habit. He peers behind the pillar and lets out a curse.

“What, Adad?” Therin shifts around him for a better view, and Kili is not quick enough to shield him from the sight of his little fox. A hitch in his breath seems to be all Therin can manage in his shock; he shifts over to huddle closer to Kili without turning his head away. Kili isn’t sure what is more unsettling about the sight before them; the unfamiliar symbol that has been shaved into the creature’s fur, or its twisted, broken neck.


	12. Therin/Nethelion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys want to throw rotting fruit at me I'd understand. But I hope a longish chapter makes up for the wait! Let me know what you think, I might be a little rusty :)

“We will have to bury her,” says Nethelion quietly. It has been a while since any of them have spoken. Eronel stands against the wall, arms folded, mirroring Nethelion’s posture. Rhuna is out of sight but very near, combing through Therin’s hair with her fingers.

He hadn’t called to any of them, but eventually they had all come. For as long as Therin can remember it has been this way; maybe it is simply because he is the youngest, but he has never endured any hurt alone.  

“I’m sorry, Therin,” says Rhuna quietly. Therin nods, but he doesn’t know what to say. He cannot seem to stop looking at Azbad’s small, silent form. She looks frail on the floor of his bedroom, so still that it makes Therin feel sick all over again. Eronel had put an old blanket underneath her.

“If I hadn’t brought her inside,” he sniffs, and Rhuna’s grip immediately tightens on his shoulders. All three of them speak up at once, their voices tumbling together.

“No, Therin—“

“You did not cause this—“

“You loved her.”

This last comes from Rhuna, who reaches around to pet Azbad’s fur with her fingertips. She keeps clear of the place where the fur has been shorn away. Therin has been trying not to look at the strange symbol, but the exposed skin draws his eye anyway.

“It’s obvious who did this,” snarls Nethelion through gritted teeth. “But we must find out _why_ it was done—“

“Later.” Eronel cuts across their brother with a word, and Nethelion seems to deflate. 

“Where should we bury her, Therin?” he goes on, crouching as best he can. “I know you are sad, but dusk will be falling by now. It should be soon.”

Therin cannot answer. Instead, he moves to press his forehead to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut against the question.

_They love you. Let them help you._

He blinks. The voice is unmistakable, of course, but he has only ever heard it in dreams. This is altogether different; it is as though the Lady Galadriel is right beside him, speaking in his ear. Furrowing his brow, Therin finds that he can reach out to the voice, grasping it with the power of his concentration alone. It is so peculiar that he lifts his head and forgets his tears for a brief moment.

_Lady?_

_I am sorry, little one. I know what it is to lose a friend._

Therin sniffs. 

_I don’t understand,_ he tells her.

_What do you seek? I am here; perhaps I may light your way._

He looks at Azbad, at his siblings, and doesn’t know what to say.

 _The Eldar have the ability to speak this way, stretching their_ fea _to meet another’s,_ Galadriel’s voice explains, and Therin feels relieved that she has chosen this to discuss. _Though I suspect you will find it easier than some._

_Can Amad do it? Can everyone see what I’m thinking?_

Somehow, Therin can feel a warm glow through their connection, as if the Lady is smiling.

_Not in the way that you may suppose. But consider your brothers and your sister, how they came to you when you felt most lonely and afraid. Consider that they might have a…sense of when they are needed most._

He almost nods his head but stops himself at the last minute. After a long moment, he finally reaches out to stroke Azbad’s fur. He hasn’t touched her since he and his father had come across her body, but now she looks so cold that Therin can’t help but reach out. Perhaps she might still feel it, somehow.   

_Why didn’t I see Azbad…why didn’t I see that this would happen?_

_The long sight moves as it will, Aule’s child. It does not often take the form we might wish. You would be wise to take this truth to heart now._

Therin huffs out loud. His brothers look down at him but he doesn’t try to explain.

 _Well,_ he says to the Lady, _why do I have the sight if I can’t stop anything bad from happening?_

If the Lady were here, Therin imagines that she might place a hand upon his shoulder, as she sometimes does in his dreams.

_Your path is long, little one, and you have only just begun. Remember that you need not walk it alone._

Therin feels her withdraw, and his mind is his own again. He doesn’t think much time has gone by, but all of his siblings are looking expectantly at him now, and he can feel that Rhuna has finished putting new braids in his hair.

“Therin?” Nethelion breaks the quiet. “What should we do?”

He swallows hard, and finally reaches out to wrap Azbad in the blanket. Gathering her up in his arms, he thinks about how she would have wriggled to get free. How she used to yip and run to him as he approached, and snuffle softly close by as he whispered to her. Secrets had always been safe with Azbad.

His eyes begin to well up again, and he clutches her small body to his chest.

“We should take her to our _Mereth Nuin Giliath_ place.”

“That would be a good place, I think.” Eronel gives a small smile.

“Should we ask Amad and Adad to come with us?” asks Rhuna.

They all look to Therin, who shrugs.

“I think that would be a rather big audience,” Eronel suggests, to Therin’s relief. “But go and tell them what we’re doing, and find us something to dig with.”   

Rhuna leaves the room with a last touch to Therin’s shoulders, promising to meet them outside. Nethelion moves to lead the way out the door, but Eronel stops him.

“Wait,” he says, producing a pen from his shirt pocket. “Do you have ink and paper, Therin?”

“No paper. But there’s some ink over there.” Therin points and Eronel goes to fetch the stoppered bottle. After a long glance at Nethelion, he maneuvers himself down to the floor alongside Azbad’s figure. They watch as he rolls up the arm of his shirt and painstakingly copies the symbol onto his pale forearm.

“For later,” he says quietly to Nethelion, who yanks up his own sleeve.

“Do mine, then. We should have more than one replication.”

Therin gazes down at his fallen friend and barely hears them.  

 

* * *

 

The contract is signed before Nethelion can quite believe it. He hasn’t ever been to a treaty signing before, but he had expected much more ceremony. But Fili simply signs the document and passes it to Gorsed to sign on his father’s behalf. Apart from guards, the only people gathered in the council chamber are blood representatives from the two clans. Nethelion and his father are there despite not being of the direct line; until Vili comes of age, they are second and third in position for the throne. Thorin, oddly enough, is in attendance as well, watching the proceedings from down the table.  

The Ironfist representatives are lined up shoulder to shoulder across from them at the council table. They are uncharacteristically quiet. Nethelion stares over their heads, sure that he will give himself away if he looks at them now. His blood boils and boils.

It is surreal to see the calm on the faces around him, when Nethelion himself can hardly sit still.

“Let the ancient blood spilled between Durin’s Folk and Ironfists be returned to its place in history. The path we forge will be our own, not that of our fathers.”

And it is done, with those brief words. Nethelion waits for his uncle’s usual grin but it never comes; in fact, Fili hadn’t said much of anything at all. His father is quiet as well, has been since the discovery of Therin’s fox.

He’ll think about it later, he decides. Arval is posted at the door; Nethelion makes his way over to stand alongside him.

“So. That’s done, then.” Arval speaks quietly.

“Mmhm.” He keeps a watchful eye on his father and uncle as Gorsed moves to speak to them.

“Has Cana said anything yet?”

Nethelion shakes his head. Across the hall, Gorsed has opened his mouth.

“Of course, we must continue to extend our gratitude to you, sire. For this as well as for your hospitality for the season.”  

Nethelion has never appreciated his elven hearing more than this very moment.

“We are allies now,” Fili replies, smiling. “You are owed the courtesy, if it is needed.”  

“We are just relieved to have reached an agreement. The negotiations have been trying for all of us, my brother most of all.” Kili looks over at Fili, concern evident to Nethelion if to no one else.

“Yes,” says Gadra, drawing near to the dwarrow. “A lesser dwarf would have succumbed long before now.” Her eyes bore into the both of them. There is a beat of silence in which Kili stares back at her.

Thorin clears his throat, in that way he has that almost sounds like a growl. He had been making his way toward the little knot of dwarves and now stands with them.

“My nephew is the greatest of dwarves,” he informs them. “He faced the son of Azog the Defiler and survived. Few others can share this distinction.”

It is no longer polite, political conversation. Nethelion can sense the tension even from across the room.  

“So we have heard,” Gorsed eventually responds, in his syrupy way. “Perhaps soon we might hear more about your quest.”

Just then, Nethelion feels a tap at his elbow.

“May we speak alone?” Cana murmurs

Nethelion almost wants to brush her aside; there are interesting things happening, and besides, he is irked that she continues to catch him off-guard. But he sets his jaw and nods, and he and Cana slip from the hall without another word to each other. Nethelion leads her all the way to his family’s chambers, the only place he knows will be completely private, and bolts the door behind them.

Cana stands silent for a moment, looking around at the shared living space.

“So. The blood feud is ended.”

“It seems so.”

Cana squints up at him. “You don’t know anything about what this means, do you?”

He shrugs, irritated.

“It figures. Obviously your parents have not groomed you to this as well as they might.” She looks around again, touches a woven blanket draped over the closest chair. “But you should know, now that our clans are allies, it invites much closer contact. For instance, before, an Ironfist dwarf would never be permitted to wed a dwarf of Durin’s Folk. The clans could not be joined in that way. But now…”

Cana trails off. She twists the bead at the end of her auburn braid, looking as uncertain as Nethelion has ever known her.

“My mother plans to seek a more _binding_ arrangement than this treaty.”

“More binding than a contract signed by the King Under the Mountain?”

Cana sighs. “I am trying to prepare you for something, if you will listen. She plans to ask that our families be joined by marriage.”

Nethelion has to sit down.

“Marriage?” he repeats, intelligently.

“Surely you must understand simple politics. When the clans think of marriage, they think of it strategically. They use it to gain wealth and prestige. And what clan has more of those than Durin’s Folk? Now that we are allied clans, the door is open to this connection. Even if you are of the lesser line.”

“So it is to be the two of us, then.”

“Oh, Fane would have been more than glad to do it, if you’d had an elder sister,” she says, her lip curling as it does whenever she speaks of her foster-brother. “But you are the only one of a proper age. So, my mother’s plan changed.”

“A proper age to be _wed?”_ Nethelion gawks at her. He not seventy years old yet; if he were to mention marriage now, his parents would laugh him out of the mountain. 

“Well.” She looks him up and down. “An age to be promised, at least. The decision will be entirely yours, I imagine. Yours and your father’s.”

“Oh, my mother will have something to say about it as well, I assure you.”

She laughs a little, and Nethelion finds himself halfway smiling despite everything.

“I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

“Why?” He stares down at her. “Why spare me the courtesy?”

“Because I thought that if it came from me, you might say yes.” She clears her throat to cover the way her voice shakes through the last word. “I am asking you to say yes.”

Nethelion is, for once, speechless. And a little sick.

“I would never expect you to…to _love_ me, of course,” she goes on, looking about as uncomfortable as he feels. “It would be nothing more than a…a favor.”

“A lifelong favor,” he says flatly. “A favor that would tie me to you forever, even when we pass into the Halls.”  

“I cannot go back there,” she blurts out, “not with them. I have finally come to Erebor, as far from the Red Mountains as I have ever been, and I intend to stay. You are my chance to escape them. I know that we have only known each other a short time, and it seems out of the question, but you do not know what it’s like to live there. To be her daughter. Please, I need your help.”

Cana turns away after this little speech, leaving Nethelion to take it in. When she turns back, though, her eyebrow has regained its usual mysterious quirk.

“And besides, I think you like me a little.”

She smiles and moves closer. Perhaps she expects Nethelion to smile back, to melt before her. But the thought only makes him curl his lip more. The terrible gut feeling has not left him; nor has the memory of overhearing Gadra in the hall.

“I already feel stupid enough.” He steps back. “Please do not make it worse.”

She tilts her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Spare me this, Cana. I know you’re hiding something, you all are. And I know you have just been pretending to like me so that I won’t be suspicious of you. But it will not work anymore.”

Nethelion has to give Cana credit; her shocked expression is very convincing.

“Is that why you acted so strangely when I came to speak to you on the mountainside? You think I have been playing some game?”

“What else am I to think?”

“Nethelion.” She whispers his name as she steps toward him, her eyes sad. “What can I do to make you trust me?”

He growls and knots his fingers in his hair, hating the question and lacking an answer. In doing so, he doesn’t realize his sleeve has ridden up until he turns back to see Cana staring at him.

“Why do you have _that_ symbol drawn on your arm?” She steps toward him and grasps his forearm in her hands, knotting her brow as she inspects the ink.

“You know what this means?”

She nods. Her hands move to trace the drawing, and Nethelion’s skin tingles beneath her fingertips.

“We found my little brother’s pet strangled yesterday, with this symbol shaved into its fur.”

 Cana drops his arm. “Oh.”

She looks caught off-guard, for once, and it occurs to Nethelion that they have found themselves in a very interesting position. In a flash, his own words come back to him. _You have just been pretending to like me so that I won’t be suspicious of you._

 _Well_ , he thinks as he looks down at her, _there is no reason two cannot play this game._

Cana’s eyes, soft brown and flecked with their warm gold, call to him, and he sighs. He won’t even have to pretend.

“You want to gain my trust?” He taps the symbol. “This would be a place to begin.”


	13. Eronel/Rhuna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to get my feet wet again. I've missed this story and these babies. And I've missed you guys! I'd love to know what you think, as always :)

Eronel is on his guard the moment he sees his brother’s face.

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“It’s not out of the question,” Nethelion replies. “Come on. There is something you need to hear.”

They walk down the hall to Nethelion’s old bedchamber. To Eronel’s momentary shock, Cana is standing in the middle of the room, hands clasped demurely behind her back.

“She knows what the symbol is.”

Any questions Eronel might have had disappear immediately from his mind. He can feel his eyes widening as he looks down at Cana, who sighs before speaking.

“This is an ancient symbol amongst my clan,” she says, gesturing to Nethelion’s forearm. Eronel pulls up his own sleeve for reference. “It is to…ward off evil spirits and magic. A rune of warning.”

She glances up at them, looking chagrined.

“It is not widely used.”

“Except perhaps to make a statement,” Eronel muses. “A uniquely Ironfist symbol, used to target a half-elven child. And in attacking one, they attack us all.”

He is so absorbed in the puzzle, for a moment he almost forgets that the enemy is standing right there in the room with them. Nethelion is stonily silent, glancing at Cana every few seconds. Clearly _he_ has not forgotten.

“Did you do this?”

“No!” She looks aghast.

“Well, then, did you plan it? Or know it would happen?”

“I swear to you, I had no part in this scheme. You must believe that,” Cana pleads with Nethelion. Her desperation is odd; Eronel’s ears prick but he says nothing.

“I haven’t yet decided what to believe,” he says flatly, not giving an inch. “You have given what you promised. Perhaps it is best if you go now.”

Her shoulders slump.

“And about…the rest of our discussion?”

“Find me tomorrow." Nethelion's voice is still hard as stone. "I will not decide before then.”

Cana gives him a long glance before leaving the room. Confused, Eronel turns quizzical eyes onto his brother.

“I am not sure what to ask you first.”

Nethelion sighs. “You will not believe me when I tell you.”

* * *

 

Rhuna stands ankle-deep in the water. The sun sets fire to the clouds as it makes its slow descent; around her, the ice-cold river runs gold. She isn’t sure why she’s come.

Perhaps a part of her hoped that the beauty of the valley would provide her some clarity, or at least a distraction. But Rhuna cannot chase away the dread that has settled in her stomach. Therin hasn’t been the same since they had buried his beloved fox. None of her brothers have, really, and Rhuna supposes she hasn’t either. Eronel had said it was a calculated strike, but he’d refused to say much more.

Their father has been more somber than usual, their mother more cautious. They all think that Rhuna does not see this. But even if she does not know the detailed reasoning, it would be difficult to miss the tension.

If she were a fighter like Nethelion, or a scholar like Eronel, there might be something she could do. But she isn’t, and she thinks for the thousandth time about how much she wishes she were older. Perhaps then people might at least tell her things. She had asked Nethelion only yesterday what he knew.

“It would only frighten you, _kahzush,”_ he’d said, in a way that was probably meant to be comforting.

“I’m already frightened,” she had replied. “It frightens me that there are secrets between us. You aren’t that much older than me, Nethelion, you do _not_ have to protect me.”

But Nethelion had only shaken his head and walked away, leaving Rhuna more frustrated than before.

She steps out of the water with a sigh, not sparing a minute to squeeze the excess out of her hem. If she isn’t back before dark her mother will worry, so she quickens her step until she enters the mountain walls.

Rhuna’s heart stops when she sees _him_ up ahead.

No matter how much her brothers might dodge the subject, she has no doubt that Fane is responsible for the attack on Azbad. No citizen of Erebor would be so bold. And as her family’s mood has darkened, Fane has only seemed to become more energetic and smug. Rhuna sees the new bounce in his step as he saunters in front of her.

Her first instinct is to hide and wait until he is out of sight. But it feels wrong to let him slink away.

“I know what you did.”

Rhuna speaks before she can convince herself not to. The shot of fear that goes through her is dizzying, and her voice sounds shaky to her own ears. But it carries loudly down the corridor. Fane turns to her and lifts his brows.

“What can you mean?” he replies, but Rhuna is sure he’s playing dumb.

Rhuna’s heart pounds in her ears, but she has decided to speak up and that’s what she’s going to do. “I know it was you that killed my brother’s pet.”

Fane just looks up at her and laughs. The sound makes Rhuna’s skin crawl and she falters.

“Forgive me if I’m not afraid of you, little _princess_ ,” he says. No denial or guilt, simply boldness. Eronel had been right; this dwarf’s arrogance knew no bounds.

“You think it’s funny, scaring children? Killing their friends?” she demands, feeling anger rise again. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but it isn’t going to work.”

“Your brothers have filled your head with suspicion. Typical of elves to be so faithless.” His lip curls as he mentions elves. Rhuna hates the way he looks at her, like a cat with a cornered mouse. Like she isn’t anything of concern. She imagines him with thick hands around Azbad’s throat with no regard for the creature’s life.

It cannot go unanswered. Rhuna takes a tiny step closer to him, looking down directly into his eyes.  

“My brothers are loyal, and brave, and they are more honorable _dwarves_ than you ever could be.”

As far as comebacks go, Rhuna supposes it isn’t the best. But she still feels a little thrill as she walks away tall, not looking back. Perhaps she has found a little warrior spirit within her after all. Behind her she hears no sound, not even a chuckle from Fane.  


End file.
